


Proditionem Ductus Paenitudine

by Rollingstone



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, happiness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:07:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27040210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rollingstone/pseuds/Rollingstone
Summary: “Geralt go! Go!” the fierce urgency in Vesemir voice startled Geralt, the direness of the situation sinking in his tummy as sticky as tar. But before a muscle in Geralt’s body could strain to move, he was caught by the actions of the Witcher.“Ego expulit tres; Amorem”Kacper drove the sword through his entrails, the sound of tearing leather and Vesemir’s bemoaned protest merging. The sword tore back out with a glorious rivet of blood and a cry of profound agony...Geralt braced himself, “Did he kill the woman?”Vesemir studied Geralt, “In a way, I suppose. She’d had lived a longer life had he left her. Should you fail someone you love, I have no doubt you’ll suffer a likely demise. Promise me Geralt; should your Witcher eye fall passionate on someone other than another Witcher, do not walk away from them; run.”When he walks away, Jaskier runs to catch up./or Geralt as a child witnesses a Witcher perform a ritual of repentance for failing his loved one; one day he finds himself in the position to perform one as well.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 65





	1. Penance

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! not my first fanfic, but my first in the Witcher series. I am reading the books, have watched the series, and have play the games, however I am not making this fic painstakingly accurate; beware. 
> 
> there is quite a bit of gore, and I should also warn this has the elements of self-harm (in a sense of duty). if that's sensitive to you I warn you to be cautious. 
> 
> the ritual is in latin and I have a translation of it at the bottom; if you put the translation in various different media's they turn out a little... odd.
> 
> All constructive criticism is highly appreciated!
> 
> enjoy!

Geralt ran through the slender alley between the walls, the pitter patter of his soft leather shoes singing up the enclosing and fading into the ceaseless, shadowy ceiling. 

Kaer Morhen was devastatingly cold. A chill froze the world around Kaer Morhen; trees crystalized by frost, unmoveable even to the winds that tore over the mountain side. The wind breathed its frosty perfume through the castles crevasse, caressing inhabitants like a corpses tickle; It devoured all life from the air, a dusty cold that made your hitch and your lungs ache.

But. Geralt oft hazarded into the night, when the castles lanterns were exorcising the last of the oil, and stood among the shadows, holding his breath to heed stirrings in the air, hoping the earth would lastly exhale the warm breath it’d been holding. For many nights Geralt eavesdropped fruitlessly, only the resonances of branches snapping from the cold stirring the static mountain. Later, when Geralts molten eyes were lusty for sleep, Geralt smelt the melt of spring in the air, like sodden dirt and moss, when the paradisiac sun shone on the frozen ground, caressing the woodlands with its golden fingers. Before long, to a Witcher alas, there’d be the treacly smell of flowers, Geralts favourite of all (Geralts mum had baked him treacle’s tarts the autumn before she’d left).

Geralt had laughed joyously in his oneness as the trees shook themselves of the ice, creaking and moaning in relief. It was times such as these that the torture of the trials lightened against the wonders of his enhanced senses. 

Now, Geralt followed a different scent, sharp and acrid, tangy and oily; blood, he thought, but something else as well: a heavy, thick, sticky sickness. It’d prompted his curiosity when he’d returned from the forest, having ambled off to escape the ridicule of the other children. Geralts newly changed appearance hadn’t expanded the meek favour he had among his peers. Geralt had grumbled through the thickets, kicking at stones and tripping over branches, cursing the cold and pondering whether to sheer his head of the fair silvery strands. He concluded his grievance would remain bald or not, and, in the meantime, the long silver strands kept his ears from the frosts sharp toothed nip. 

Geralts fingertips dragged along the coarse stone, the sparks and pricks of pain in his icy hands furthering his enthrallment as he moved closer to voices. Geralt hesitated at a deviation in the clandestine paths. The thuds, hums, and mumbles from the castle inhabitants bled through the dense walls into the veiled paths. The towering, narrow structure of the paths harnessed the sounds like the flutes of a windchime, conducting the breeze and creating music. Geralt felt enormously privileged to have survived his further trials, for without them, the library of sounds he heard in theses paths would be not but a wasted hum. Geralt cocked his head to the side and followed his ears west, the voices becoming desperate and angered as he neared.

Geralt froze at a place in the wall. All noise in the room ceased. Geralt new the room beyond the wall; specters of his own feverish moans whispered through him, chilling him more thoroughly then the wind. It was the medical faction.

Geralts small but crafty hands felt along the stone until a great polished rock shifted under his palm, sliding smooth as butter to reveal a cavity in the wall. 

Instantly the smell of blood and phlegm overwhelmed Geralt. 

A woman lay on a table, her slack neck kept in place by a fine silk pillow. Her skin was pale as a noble baker’s flour, her breast drooping to the sides like malleable dough. Her legs, thighs plump with the promise of fair children and calves thick and shapely, were spay unnaturally on the hard wood; toes curled before Geralts eyes. Her nipples were stagnantly erect, and Geralt wondered if she was still warm to touch despite the splashes of blood speckling her breathless chest. blood had darkened in generous rivets from her mouth, still congealing and spilling over in dense clumps from her parted lips. The sparkle of life, like stars beginning enveloped back into the sky at dawn, were fading from eyes of honey brown. 

A shuddering, racked wail erupted in the room, shattering Geralts mesmerisation like a mercury vanity and setting his heart into a furious gallop. Garbled, choked words of denial danced between the clatter of a chair and hefty metal clashing. Geralt recognised Vesemir’s voice over the growing agony in the foreign Witcher’s lamentations. Geralt had never beheld a rage of emotion so staunch within the fortress of Kaer Morhen; like the untameable ocean Geralt had read about, the lurid hands of nature that swallowed ships and sailors alike. Whether this man was the sailor or the sea, Geralt knew not. 

With a grunt of impatience, Geralt shifted the loose stone further, finally laying eyes on the overwrought Witcher. Words began to spill from the Witcher’s lips, an oath in a language Geralt didn’t know. Vesemir, however, did. 

“…Ante messem, cum stragulum mortis lapsus a frigore humeris, unum ferri talis panno via spiritus...” a man with dark hair lunged for the Witcher with haste, wrenching his arms behind his back, but a mad force allied with the strange Witcher and he broke free easily.

“…Ego crevit in spinas et illa germinavit surrexit, pectore sic fecit mihi calor ferrum fluunt. quæ præceptum est sanguis meus…” the Witcher shoved past two men Geralt recognised as the Harvesters (a name Geralt bestowed after seeing them unthaw the permafrost in Kaer Morhen's burial grounds. Two small boys who’d laid lifeless for two night were lowered into the earth with little ceremony, their lack of resilience to the toxins Geralt had harnessed had laid waste to them.) 

“Stop this madness, Kacper! She’d never have wished this for you!” Geralt’s eyes widened at the despair in Vesemir's voice.

The hiss of a silver sword unsheathing sliced through the room. The Witcher turned to Vesemir, still murmuring the low oath, “Cum mihi satis erit deficient: in anima vel carne mea furtum manducare, ego exacueret diligenter et tunc meus valde ferro erit disembowel me.”

Geralt gasped, natural chaos crackling in his chest frightfully as Vesemir lunged at the Kacper. They struggled, twirling to and from, crashing into the wall and rolling against it as Vesemir fought to claim the sword from the mans leathered hands. 

Geralt saw the man move his hand in a strange pattern before Vesemir was uprooted and thrown to the opposing wall. He collapsed with a pained grunt. Vesemir looked to the man beseechingly, a plead beginning to form on his thin lips. 

The man staggered to the body of the woman. He brought his gloved hand to his mouth, teeth tugging the leather off a hand roughened by an unkind life. The Witcher’s bare fingers caressed her cheek with a frailty that betrayed his power.

The Witcher stepped back and fell to his kneels before the body. He held the silver blade surely in his hands. His grip seemed opposing to Geralt; his hands gripped the hilt as to strike creeping vermin’s, but Vesemir warned never to use such a foolish position lest you quarter yourself…

Geralt’s breath froze. Kacper hefted the tip of the sword to a fracture in his armour. 

No.

“No!” Vesemir’s eyes snapped to the shifted stone, his eyes widening a threads width when he found two reflective pupils peering through.

“Geralt! Go!” the fierce urgency in Vesemir voice startled Geralt, the direness of the situation sinking in his tummy as sticky as tar. But before a muscle in Geralt’s body could strain to move, he was caught by the actions of the Witcher. 

“Ego expulit tres; Amorem” 

Kacper drove the sword through his entrails, the sound of tearing leather and Vesemir’s bemoaned protest merging. The sword tore back out with a glorious rivet of blood and a cry of profound agony.

“Honorem,” The Witcher drew the sword back another time, shuddering arms rose above his head before the sword whistled down in a half crescent motion, tearing through his stomach and intestines, silver grating between ribs. Geralt gaged as the sword was thrust through the man a second time, the squelching wet sound rising the acid in Geralts throat. With great will, Kacper retraced the swords slicing entry till the tip barely escaped the torn flesh. The gaping cavity in the man’s abdomen gushed bile and blood.

“Poenitentia.” The man collapsed onto the sword. Geralt threw up. The Witcher keeled forward in a puddle of his blood, bile and piss, the silver sword protruding through his upper back, through his lungs, gleaming like a ruby. Blood heaved from the Witcher’s gaping mouth, gurgled breaths drowned in the viscous liquid. The Witcher’s body spasmed, eyes bulging. As avowed to do, the Witcher’s organs were spilling on to the stone floor. 

Geralt started running down the path, tears spilling from his feline eyes and sobs swelling his throat. He ignores Vesemir’s voice whispering his name, but he couldn’t escape the call completely. 

/+/

Vesemir found Geralt in the early morn.

The sky was a foreboding fusion of reds and purples, casting the tranquil forest in hellish hues. Geralt eyes stared sleeplessly through the world and into his minds haunting visions. His fingertips rubbed raw against the stone hedge he sat slouched on, like soft, sweeping waves. He meditated on the feeling and the visions in his mind, not allaying his hands continuous grating motion on the granular stone. 

This first lashing smell of blood had entered the air when a marred hand gently subdued his own. Vesemir soothed Geralts icy hands in his palms, humming disapprovingly at the tender skin. 

“We’ve spoken of this foolishness, little wolf.” Vesemir chastened. Vesemir frowned at the bloodied fingertips, waiting for Geralts usual cheek. When none came Vesemir sat beside Geralt and enveloped the frozen boy into his warm arms. It was a rare display of benevolence. 

Vesemir ignored the quaking in Geralts shoulders, allowing him dignity. Vesemir listened to the racing of Geralt mutated heart, the grinding of his sharp teeth as he reigned in his emotions; but Geralt could not hide the horror in his golden eyes, the way his slit pupils were blown. 

“I don’t understand.” The boy gritted out, his breath shuttering. “I don’t understand why he’d, why he’d hurt himself in such an unbearable way” Geralt heart began beating faster and Vesemir recognised his pups temper rising. “where was his honor? Where was his strength? What kind of Witcher commits such a vile act of cowardice!?” Geralt tore himself from the warm side of his teacher, stalking a few angry steps away. 

Vesemir contemplated the boy for a moment, wondering if he was mistaken, but not lingering long enough to change his resolve. He explained, “It was an act of love, honor, and repentance; a slash of the sword for each. It’s an uncommon act, but few Witcher’s have fallen on their silver swords while claiming the ritual of Proditionem Ductus Paenitudine.”

Geralt stilled. His pupil flashed in the semi-darkness of the morning as he swivelled around. “He loved the woman?”

Vesemir bowed, watching as Geralt exercised concealing his emotions. It was like watching lose snow skitter across the top of the older, hardened snow, try to find a place to settle in and hide, but not being able to escape the winds hurrying hands long enough. His wolfs face twisted minutely, before his confusion won the best of him, “But Witcher’s aren’t supposed to have feeling.”

Vesemir sighed, regarding the blazing horizon. “We train you the best we can to control and conceal your emotions, wolf, but we cannot eliminate them completely. Though the trials do indeed change the way you feel.”

Geralt tried to recall how he felt before his memory became blurred by the pains and delirium of poison. “so, we feel… but not like human?”

Vesemir hummed, “Well, that’d be rather silly, wouldn’t it, given you have as much humanity in you as a stone.” Geralt flinched and turned away. Vesemir minded the restless fingertips brushing against coarse wool pants. “Humans feel widely and expressively, their unabridged existence a long string of complex emotions. Like a forest on fire in the rain; trees alighting and being dowsed rapidly, there emotions are continuously stimulated. Withers experience emotion like the burning blue gases of a bog; appearing rarely, far between, but harshly and dangerous.” Vesemir watched as Geralt processed this, “However, when a Witcher does feel, its depth is encompassing and merciless, burning hot; just as the bogs blue flame burns the far hotter than the red flames of kindle. ‘tis why it’s fundamental you control your feelings, Geralt, for once caught, you’ll be hard pressed to control them before a beast tears out your larynx.” 

Geralt brow furrowed, and Vesemir’s timeworn heart ached for the boy he cared for so deeply. “Witcher’s shouldn’t have feelings, should they.”

“No,” Vesemir agreed, “emotions are far more likely to cut a Witcher down then a monster, and a Witcher with emotions damns whoever treads their Path to a perilous and toilsome life. That is why we encourage you to walk the Path alone, wolf. You are not meant for the humans’ comfort.” Vesemir’s eyes beseeched Geralts, a yawning loneliness deepening in them. 

“I understand,” Geralt spoke softly, though his voice was abrasive from the intense screams of his trials, vocal cords still heeling from the ordeal. Vesemir wondered if the boy’s voice would ever regain the silky softness it once had. Geralt studied Vesemir, hesitantly walking back to his teacher. “Here, at Kaer Morhen, this is my asylum… my family?”

Vesemir lay a hand on his shoulder. “Dearly, Geralt, I will welcome you at the gates of Kaer Morhen as long as my knees support me, and my hands wield the keys. Indeed, we are family.” Geralts eyes shimmered before he looked away, and Vesemir treasured the innocence. Before long his pups expressive face would be carved like unyielding stone. “We do not forbid love, Geralt, and should you find yourself unable to rid yourself of your feelings, it is best to learn how to live with them. Kacper was a formidable and respected Witcher, and his death was one of fulfilling an oath he believed was undisputable. He died honorably, repenting for a failure not redeemable in life.”

Geralt braced himself, “Did he kill the woman?” 

Vesemir studied Geralt, “In a way, I suppose. She’d had lived a longer life had he left her. She’d had borne children and married. The Witcher failed her the moment he embraced his love for her, and he failed when the rough road of the path wore on her soft body.” Geralt looked away, but Vesemir tilted his face to meet his eyes; “should you fail someone you love; I have no doubt you’ll suffer a likely demise Geralt. Your far to honorable and passionate already, at such a juvenile age.” Geralt scoffed but Vesemir held him fast, his heart heavy. He was setting his wolf up for a life of solitude, but at least his life he’d keep. “promise me Geralt; should your Witcher eye fall passionate on someone other than another Witcher, do not walk away from them; run.”

/+/

When the Troubadour swaggers around to Geralts dark corner, his slow heart stutters and he lowers his head, willing the shadows to grant cover. The man studies him without the usual fear, but as Geralt stares deeply into his executioner’s glacier eyes, he’s surer of his monstrous nature then any stone or insult has been able to convince him. Geralt pleads the bard to insult him, to rip him apart and tear away his individuality; to shred his tender soul but spare his body. But the man’s tongue doesn’t slash maliciously, instead his voice blooms in colours of wonder and ambition. 

Geralt gets up, feeling as though he’s walking chest high in the bogs. Vesemir’s voice rings severely in his head.

Escape, escape, escape. 

When he walks away, Jaskier runs to catch up. 

/+/Before the harvest, when the blanket of death was slipped from my cold shoulders, the one carried such cloth way was of her spirit. I grew thorns and she blossomed roses, in my chest so did my heat iron flow. she commanded my blood alone. When my adequateness shall fail in soul or flesh, my steal I’ll eat. I sharpen carefully and then my very steel shall disembowel me. I drove three; Love, honor, penance. /+/


	2. Honor

Irises smouldered like flowing gold, learning the bard playing at his lute across the crackling fire. 

The locus were hushed in the night, quietening their chorus as monsters prowled close to the forest edge. Geralts ears picked up the sounds of sphincters clicking and deranged voices tittering. Although Geralt doubted any vermin would venter beyond the timbers cover, he’d keep his sword close to him tonight.

Jaskier continued to strum his lute gaily. Geralt sighed; the locus had more survival instincts then the bard and the bard would need his survival instincts if he planned to see his silver days.

Earlier in the evening, Geralt had swung down from Roaches saddle, smoothing his hand down his mares’ neck and touching his forehead to hers in thanks. They’d journeyed the brighter part of the day on the sharp inclines of the Tatra Mountains, Jaskier huffing and bemoaning his misfortune the entirety of the trip, but it wasn’t till Roach’s lungs swelled yawning from exertion Geralt searched for a camp. The granite beneath his boots was cold but sturdy. Jaskier had walked to the cliff face mere meters from their camp, warily peering over its edge before skittering away; Geralt had stood and admired the vast dark forest. He’d gazed piningly at the pansophic mountains illuminated in dusks rosy rays; he felt young beneath the antediluvian peaks. 

“What're you brooding about over there.” Geralt, looked at the bard, noticing the absence of his lute, and scowled without answering. “you know,” Jaskier continued unprompted, “folk say you Witcher’s only have monsters and coins rattling around your head up there, but I’ve seen the way you watch the forget-me-nots blow in field of golden grain, the drooping willows sway morosely,” Jaskier’s head dipped down to catch Geralts stare, “those free horses trotting in the meadows between the mountains valleys, unburdened and strong. You look at them with an admiration, with a serenity and longing not many people have ever felt before, much less to the elements of our good earth.” Jaskier smiled softly, privately, “you observe much more of this continent then most men, don’t you?” Jaskier sought. 

Geralt looked into the fire, grabbing a stick to poke and antagonise the flames, “I’m not human, bard.” Geralt grunted, and after a moment’s thoughts, “and I’m not one of your songs.”

“Actually, you are one of my songs, numerous, really. And they are mighty famous.” Jaskier’s infamy was still a smug accomplishment for the bard, evidently. “but your right, I suppose. You are so much more than a man.” Geralt’s gaze flickered to Jaskier’s, stomach twisting at the honesty he saw in them. Geralt thought to the wailing Witcher, the silver sword he used to gut himself, the intention and devotion he exercised in the name of a woman. Geralt grew to understand why the Witcher used a silver sword. 

“Do not mistake who I am for the sake of your silly melodies,” Jaskier huffed and crossed his arms. Geralt scarcely desisted from rolling his eyes, “this delusion I’m some kind of white knight will be your demise.” Said Geralt, although, much more likely, it’d be his own death. 

Jaskier ignored the severity of Geralts words, instead flashing a charming, self-assured smile, “Death not by the hands of the mighty white wolf, I’m sure.” 

“Do not be so sure,” Geralt grunted, “walking The Path with a Witcher is dancing with death.”

Jaskier leaned closer to the flames, setting his lute aside and warming his stiff hands. Warm light illuminated Jaskier against the dark void around them. Jaskier sighed, “I walk with you in confidence; there’s no other I would trust with my life so readily.” 

Geralt didn’t indulge Jaskier with an answer. Instead, he pulled out his silver sword and his whetstone, disciplining his emotions while he sharpened the blade. 

Jaskier groaned, “Meletelies tit, Geralt, put the sword away and stop fretting. Sharping that sword is like your nervous tick, if Witcher’s were to have one, and it bloody well gets me anxious when you sharpen it so often.” Jaskier dragged his hands over his face, exhaustion from the road leaving him weary. “your concern for me is touching, as close you’ll get to admitting were friends, but I’ve held my own this far, luck’s sweet kiss has blessed my forehead-” 

Geralt snorted scathingly, “is that what you call it? Fascinating. When those nekkers had you halfway in the ground and piked for roasting, was luck what saved you?”

“Well now, that was one time-” 

“And when she had you drinking up seawater like a fine wine, it must have been luck’s kind hands that burnt the overgrown fish into char. Or, was I mistaken in assuming she wasn’t trying to eat you and I rudely interrupted your indulgence in scales and tits?”

“You promised never to mention that!” Jaskier squeaked, face flushing ember red, “you said so yourself, I was helpless to her call, not but a lone bard yearning song and touch. Then there she appeared; scaly bits hidden away-”

“They do say never look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“AND HER SONG tucked away any logical reasoning of perhaps why meeting a naked maiden in the water wasn’t a common occurrence,” Jaskier continued hurriedly.

“Probably cause anyone stupid enough to go swimming with a siren ended up as fleshy bones for the fish to pick at.” 

“Okay, firstly, disgusting. And secondly, such is why, my dear, belligerent, Witcher, I am better off with you!” Jaskier beamed, his arms spread wide. He shivered as a cold wind wrapped around him and hugged his midsection. Jaskier twitched under Geralts scrutiny. “Alright so I’ve had _two_ -”

“I can continue if you need reminding,” Geralt offered.

Jaskier pursed his chapped lips, “I’ve had a _few_ threatening encounters with your common compony, but I’ve escaped-”

“rescued,” the wither interjected, bemused.

“I’ve _survived_ each encounter without so much as a scratch.” Jaskier hissed out.

The Witcher’s molten eyes stared the bard down. Jaskier held his gaze for a brief second before caving, “puking out sea water cannot be classified as a scratch.”

“No” Geralt agreed, “nor can shitting for a week because you ate poisonous berries.”

“Alright!” Jaskier flung his hands in the air, “I think we’ve reminisced enough on my misadventures!”

Geralt hummed. For a while, the locus conversed alone. 

Geralts expressions shifted minutely, but his eyes were hooded by heavy lids as he gazed into the fire, hidden from Jaskier’s rifling. It was true, Jaskier knew, oft times his human condition was bothersome to Geralt; where the Witcher could travel for days, Jaskier needed rest, where the Geralt drank poisons voluntarily, a simple graze of a vermin’s venom would vanquish the bard. 

Nevertheless, Jaskier took pride in the way he allayed Geralts path; it was his one mitzvah in life. Jaskier discussed business with the local mayors, fetching fair wages and ensuring Geralt limited his charity enough as to have bread to eat. When a healer cried hysterically that a Witcher’s blood was corrosive (absolute horse shit) and refused to heal Geralt, Jaskier would take up the needle and thread. Though Geralt would never admit it, he grown used to their routine. 

Geralt had returned from a contract with a werewolf, Jaskier recalled, shuffling through the edges of the crowded tavern as Jaskier performed. The bard had sent Geralt a inquisitorial nod of his chin, a silent question, _do you need help_. Geralt waved him off. Jaskier let him go to avoid another pother. 

He shan’t have, for when the bard finally swung his lute from his neck, took his bow and returned to their shared room, Geralt was knotted trying to stich a sluggishly bleeding wound on his shoulder. The Witcher froze, caught red handed in his struggle. There had begun Jaskier job as Geralts personal healer. 

“What would you have me do then; leave?” Jaskier scoffed. “You ought to know by now that’s not happening.”

“The only reason your still here is the fact that you haven’t gotten a scratch.”

In the time Jaskier had begun following the Witcher, Geralt had made a habit of sharpening his silver sword anytime he felt swayed to accept the bard’s presence. Geralt felt the strangle hold on his emotions slip, like the flattering grip of a knight before he’s slain. 

The bard was like the waft of saccharine pollen in the air, but its happy sugar Geralt could never taste. His constant words had become the sweetest melodies, but Geralt knew these melodies would be ever sweeter unheard; distant dreams to warm his bed but leave him to wake unmarred. 

But there is no light nor sweet breezes on the Path. No gentle drowse could cease the verdurous gloom and winding mossy ways; it’d only allow for the dagger to slip viewless between his ribs. Now more than ever did Geralt think wistfully of an easeful death, but a Witcher was not borne of poison to slip into the darkling and never awaken; they lived and died by the sword, whether the hand wielding be known or not. 

A cold breeze swirled around the mountain side and hurried the fire, sparks blowing to the south in a frantic scurry. Jaskier shivered. 

“Get some rest, it’s a long walk tomorrow” Geralts winkless eyes gleamed in the fire light he spoke to Jaskier.

“It’d be a much shorter walk if you’d let me on Roach”

“Not a chance”

&

The sun rose like a burning ember. Thin trees cast harsh strips upon the forest floor, where otherwise it blazed the colour of a maiden’s cheeks. The forest glowed magically in the light, thick fullage dotted with berries of purple, orange and red decaled brilliantly. 

The forest was growing denser the further into its depths they traveled, and should the trees and thistles knit any closer together, they’d have to find a new route for Roach’s benefit. 

Geralt had woken Jaskier at the turning of dusk, the camp packed, and evidence of their stay scattered and veiled by kicked dust; the primary morning, though not unexpected, was as difficult as always for Jaskier. Being as it was, Geralt lead roach ahead of Jaskier while the bard straggled behind, his bones still heavy from the chill of the mountain side gloaming. The wispy wool of sleep began to spin itself neatly as Jaskier stretched his arms above his head, breathing a lungful of crisp, light air. Jaskier’s thoughts began to pick up pace along with the spring in his step, but he held his tongue. Up ahead, he knew Geralts keen ears where basking in the soft song of morn. 

By mid-afternoon they’d reached what Geralt called a road, and Jaskier classified as a beaten path; whatever it be called, it’d lead them to the town of Ystad. As it oft happened, one beast often led to another; Geralt had scarcely dusted off the last monster’s spew when a dour barmaid told them of a creature troubling her sisters’ homeland. Before Jaskier could flip a coin into his empty goblet and lax back, Geralt was saddling Roach without a word to Jaskier; another quirk of the Witcher. Formal invitations to join Geralt were never given, the Witcher prepared to travel and left. Albeit it was a step up from the thoroughly assertive way Geralt used to curse Jaskier’s company. Jaskier turn restlessly at night, always listening for the sounds of rattling potions steeling away or hoofs scuffing the ground; the rustle of cotton sheets and the whine of a tavern door opening. He must, lest one day he wakes alone.

“Keep up bard, this mountain will swallow you.” Jaskier jogged to meet the Witcher’s brisk pace, wiping away the prickles of sweat on his brow.

“Well, wouldn’t that just tickle you funny. I’m impress you’ve restrained yourself, admirable, truly. How easy it’d be to simply hop on your horse and leave poor Jaskier in the stifling mountain filth.” Jaskier lamented breathlessly, hands waving dramatically. Ever so often he’d hitch up the slipping leather strap of his lute case. 

“Hmm.” Orbs like the harvest moon studied Jaskier from the side, unnervingly emotionless. “Too risky.” Geralt rumbled. 

Jaskier wiped away the film of dust collecting on his lip, regarding his dirtied hands with disgust. “I’m elated; the great Butcher of Blavikin cares for my wellness.” Jaskier’s jest stopped short, the name slipping past his foolish lips without thought. 

Geralt frowned softly. Then a smile unfurled on the Witcher’s lips.

“Too risky, I meant, for Roach. These rocks” Geralt kicked said rocks as Jaskier stumbled over one, “are too loose for her to carry a rider. She could hurt an ankle.”

Jaskier gaped, spluttering exaggeratedly, “you- you great, horrible Witcher you- “ 

Geralt smirked and tuned out Jaskier theatrics. 

&

Wax had pooled on the villager’s windows by the time Geralt and Jaskier arrived in the village. 

As they’d pocketed more elevation the tree grew stouter, only the toughest subalpine fir’s surviving the sharp winds and onerous winters. Jaskier had brush his hands over the tops of the waist high trees, plucking at their pines as they’d passed. As the precious hours of diurnal waved farewell, steel grey clouds wisped by the jagged mountain tops and swathed the mountain side in a heave of ice. Jaskier had folded his hands into his armpits until his armpits too became cold. He’d just about suggested finding shelter for the night when Geralt had unfasten his heavy cloak and thrown it over Jaskier’s shoulders without a word. The warm cloak saved Jaskier from hypothermia, but guilt of his nuance shrouded him till the clouds quieted the snow fall to a soft drift and Jaskier rehomed the cloak. From a distance, the welcoming glow of Ystad hurried both their steps. 

The village was a simple lane stretching along a flat belt of mountain. The houses, with beautiful accents of maroon, yellow and a shimmering green were oddly triangular, like nothing Jaskier had seen before. Swooping roofs brushed the ground where mounds of snow collected between the homes. Jaskier admired the brilliant structure, watching the gently falling snow slide from steep slopes, instead of weighing heavily on the shingles; he’d seen snow collapse roofs on resting families, crushing them in their sleep.

“Geralt,” Jaskier marvelled, voice bright, “look at the houses, I’ve never seen its’ like.” 

Jaskier walked tightly to Geralt, his sight waning in the darkness as people began snubbing out their candles. Roach was restlessly nudging Geralt, causing him to bump Jaskier. 

“Quit it, Roach” Jaskier blustered. She jostled Geralt into Jaskier again, harshly. Her master sent her a disapproving scowl. 

“It’s a wonder anyone can survive in these conditions,” Jaskier mused, ignoring the persistent shoves from roach, “but these simpletons, well, they’re thriving! These paints are found in nobles halls, Geralt, never has a humble village been donned so exquisitely. I wonder the source of their wealth. Whether ore or fur? What do you say Geralt? Astonishing really- oh why am I bothering, a brute like you can’t apricate the fine art of-”

Geralt stopped. Jaskier lay a few more tracks in the snow before throwing a bamboozled glance at the halted Witcher. Like a cat, the Witcher was coiled tight, eyes boring far past Jaskier down the lane where the candles flickering light began to disappear. 

“The snow is trackless.” Geralt’s rasping voice crackled out of resonance.

Jaskier blanched as dozens of flames were stolen from their wick, vanished as if a great gust of wind had blown them out. Curtains where drawn quickly, and silence that shamed the quiet before rang in Jaskier ears. Had Jaskier not been able to blink he’d think his eyes had been pinched right from his skull. 

“Geralt-” Jaskier barley breathed the word before a leather clad hand clasped his wrist firmly. Eerie spilt over Jaskier, raising the hair on his arms. 

Geralt unfasten Roaches reins and sent her galloping back to the forest with a sharp slap to her rear, her cry the only sound save their breaths.

They stood in complete silence and darkness. Then town revealed itself in the shades of a charcoal drawing, sinister shadows arrested in place. 

Akin to the whine of an arrow peeling through space, a whistling whine raped the silence. 

With the imminence of a slashing whip, Jaskier felt his toes leave the ground. He was sliding over razor sharp snow, icy teeth cutting his cheek. Jaskier gasped, grappling with the shadows surrounding him. Geralt grabbed his hands and pushed him further into the shadows between two houses, pushing Jaskier into a mound of snow and sheltering him from the alley entrance. 

A deafening blast erupted in the village, like lightening tearing through a pine. The sound of a staccato scream began. 

From the shadowy grays of his vision, Jaskier lay transfixed as a winged shadow tore into the roof of a house across from the alley, beams of wood soaring through the air. The beasts head dipped into the home and something was torn from within the house; the screams grew clearer before, like the candle’s flame, the screams extinguished. The wood shifted and clattered beneath the beast weight, but amongst the tumbling timber, a low, nauseating grinding and snapping could be hear. 

The beast settled. A wet gushing sound began; the hallow crunch of a ribcage collapsing, the popping and grinding of cartilage and sockets, the slow rip of ligaments and muscle pulling apart. And when Jaskier thought he could take no more, that he’d lose his wits and fall into insanity, the sounds ceased. 

Geralt breathed deeply. As though slapped out of a reverie, Jaskier cuffed a hand to his mouth. Geralt grabbed Jaskier shoulders and pushed his face into his neck, arms wrapping around him. 

“Be silent.” The words were voiceless, a mere susurrate. A shrill roar shook through Jaskier and then the swoosh of fine leathery wings folding air signaled the beast departure. 

Jaskier dare not make a sound, not trusting his fickle ears even after the beast’s flight could no longer be heard. Only when Geralt drew back, patting Jaskier down for injuries, did Jaskier start fumbling to speak, stuttered nonsense passing through his trembling lips. 

“Jaskier, Jaskier!” Jaskier froze, begging Geralt to help him make sense of what he’d witnessed, but Geralt had no soothing lies. “I am with you” Geralt offered, and miraculously, the panic gripping the bard eased. 

One by one, the candles began to light the windows.

&

Jaskier woke with a start, then promptly rolled to the side of the cot and vomited. 

The night before gripped him.

As the towns people had begun to light their candles the glow brought the horror into stark colour, but no one left their dwellings to investigate. The homes roof had been utterly demolished; an enormous gapping mouth of skewed wooden teeth was left in place. Blood as bright as a king’s robe splattered the snow and dripped down the shimmery green beams. Ripped cloth and glistening globs of flesh had clung to sharp slivers of wood.

A hand on his elbow had led him away. Dazed, Jaskier stumbled along, wide eyes glued to the snowy ground until it seemed to be moving under him like a white rug. As Geralt led Jaskier further down the lane the towns grief became apparent. Between the glowing homes, ghosts of house, cast in gloom, revealed themselves and their perforated crowns. 

When his body spasmed with dry heave and clued into the fruitlessness of its efforts, Jaskier righted himself and met the Witcher’s scrutiny from across the room. Geralt sat with his blade on his lap, eye searching Jaskier. 

“What!?” The bard snapped, unnerved by the inspection.

“Your cheek.” Was all the Witcher said.

Jaskier raised a hand to his tender cheek, feeling a scabby rash where the abrasive snow had none too gently meet his face. Jaskier winced. Geralts ambience darkened.

Geralt grated the whetstone across the blade, “you should leave. The villagers are sending a dye cart into the valley for trade. I can offer them a few coins for your safe passage.”

“What?” Jaskier uttered, confused, “why in the world would I do that?” Geralt glared at his sword, resolute, dragging the whetstone across the blade harsher then needed. Jaskier groaned exasperated, “Geralt, come on, not this again-”

“You’ve borne enough of a Witcher’s burden, more than any human should. Your songs will be believable as you set out for them to be, and you can find another muse elsewhere. This is no life for you, bard.” Jaskier could hear no choice in the Witcher’s voice. Well that could kindly find itself a nice place in a Whore House. 

“I’m not leaving!” Jaskier’s gripped. The lines fawning Geralts eyes hardened. Jaskier sighed softly, “I’m not your responsibility, Geralt, I can take care of my own person; even a child falls and cuts his knee. I will not die from a small scratch,” accusation slit Jaskier vision, “nor will I lose my spirit from yesternight’s calamity”

Geralt sneered, “you think this will be the last time you see a person’s body be ripped apart? If you stay, you’ll see far harsher horrors,” a shadow of the past fell over Geralt, “women’s carcasses with gapping wombs where their child should be; men skinned alive, flesh peeled off in bloody strips; paralysed victims eaten in slow, agonising bites as to keep them alive and fresh. And there’s nothing you can do bard, to ease someone’s pain when half their bodies been picked apart and gone septic with infection; you can’t even ease their pain if you don’t have the courage to bring your sword down on them.” Geralt scoffed, “you’d have wish for folly had you seen them.”

Jaskier was quiet, his head bowed, fist clenched, “I’m not leaving.” he whispered, for it was all he could do to be defiant. 

Geralt snarled and left the room, bag and sword in hand. Jaskier was out of bed before his pitched sheet settled, pulling on his furs and boots. 

he flung open the door to another room. A stout maiden kneading bread on a finely polished tabletop stopped mid knead, alarm painting her round face. 

“Dear me.” the woman squeaked, then burst into a flurry of motion, “Come, come! Come sit.” Jaskier’s protest fell on deaf ears as the woman lead jasper to a colourful rug, patting his shoulders. He plopped to the rug boneless, looking to the door Geralt had left to anxiously. 

The women rolled a flat stone away from the mouth of small dome, revealing blazing embers, and the smell of sweet bread wafted through the small space. 

“I heard raised voices, and though I don’t mean to eavesdrop, the Witcher has quite the voice when he wants to.” She frowned thoughtfully, “though he’s quiet as a mouse otherwise. Anyhow, you shouldn’t mind his words. That ol’ Witcher, he cares very much for you, dearie. Last night must’ve frightened him too; I don’t think he blinked once last night, been watching over you from across the room since the wee hours.” 

Jaskier paid her words little mind. The Witcher kept the stars company on most nights, and never did the Witcher feel fear. Jaskier had seen Geralt walk unflinchingly into the depth of the earth, caves as dark as Geralts cat-poisoned eyes, and though Jaskier remained in the bleating sun, the shrieks and howls that resounded from those caves sent his heart rabbiting. No, Geralt knew no fear, not alike men. 

The women sat with Jaskier, too close to be proper, and handed him a fluffy bun and a cup of pale steaming liquid. The maiden, despite their proximity, was comfortable, as if unbothered by what most would consider scandalous.

She sipped her cup, and Jaskier followed suit, unnerved by this woman’s closeness and eager to busy himself. She spoke, “you’ll feel like this for a while; like a leaf in the wind, frail and pliant to which ever direction you’re blown. It’ll pass in a few days, love. It’s the shock.” Her voice was gentle, but a hallow hopelessness which guided the words was tangible. 

Jaskier gaze into his cloudy tea, tearing a piece of fluffy bread of to try, musing if the same effort was used to tear apart bygone townspeople. Jaskier studied the woman, her crystal blue gaze made clearer by the light rosacea under her cheeks, her small lips, the fold of her hooded eyes; she had no need for vanity, but beauty ebbed from her anyhow; the sweet scent of the rose opposed to its supple suede corollas. 

Jaskier looked away in shame. This maiden had lost another friend in the night and it was her heavy hand and warm comforts soothing him. “the manipulation of words is my life’s pursuit you see, and yet, my tongue is lame to express adequate condolence for the loss you’ve experience.” Jaskier murmured, but with a tight jaw the bard bore into the woman’s eyes with all the conviction he could muster, spat venomously, “but I swear to you, the Witcher and I leave this town with that beasts blood on our hands, or not at all.” 

And as though sacks of rice were lifted from her shoulders, her broad shoulder slumped, and her stiff upper lip dropped. “thank you, my dear,” she breathed, “thank you. They call me Mariam, and you are dear?”

“Jaskier, madam.”

Cat-like eyes studied the wreckage, keen as a bird watching for the slightest evidence of prey. Geralt was alone, his prints the only blemishes marring the snow; the villagers didn’t leave their homes unless for business, not when they themselves felt like a mouse under an owl’s sentry. 

In the night, rodents had licked the scene of any salvable flesh and the bloody snow had begun to turn yellow at the puddle’s edges, but the beast mephitis was astringent. Viscous saliva was slobbered over the remains of the desecrate home. A pungent, territorial marking to foul another beasts’ nose.

“Hmm.” 

Geralt could recall the shifting of slick scales starkly, like slate sliding down an alp: smooth, catching, clicking, gliding, grating. The Witcher had heard past Jaskier’s rabbiting heart and creaking knuckles to the grinding of carnassial teeth shearing bone, the rasping drags of a roughen tongue licking bones hallow. Claws had sunk into wood easily with a squeak and squelch, and the evidence was left in lengthy slashes to the wood. 

A dragon, no doubt. 

“Hmmm.” 

Tangy perfume and muffled crunching announced the tradesman’s arrival. He came to Geralts side without a word, removing his toque and bowing his head. When the tradesman had paid his respect, he leveled his leaky grey gaze to Geralt. 

His thick beard trebled, “I beg of you Witcher, kill it, whatever devil it may be, put an end to this horror. Any price you ask, we’ll pay.”

Geralt faced the man. “I’ve no interest in devils. Tell me of this dragon.”

“Urgh, fuck!” Geralt shielded his crown from the whipping snow. 

The wind howled veraciously, insistent in pushing and pulling the Witcher as he stalked up the mountain, following the dragon’s scent. 

The dragon had struck the town the town a week after the first snow fell and hadn’t returned for nearly a month. The towns people, the tradesman, Mori, had told Geralt, had resumed life morose but assuredly, assuming it must have been a freak accident. 

“but, no more the three travels latter I came home to rest my head, and during the dark hours when almost all the candles had been put out, the beast, this dragon you say, struck again, tearing Loren right from her nursing chair, her babe likely suckling herself to sleep.” Mori quickly took a swig of his warm cider to mask his tremble. “when her husband returned from his trades, his home, wife, and child stolen, he hung himself.” the tradesman’s baggy lids gleamed with unfallen grief, “and gods, though I should curse his cowardice, I cannot. I cannot find it within me to blame him, when I myself can’t be sure I wouldn’t’ve done the same should my home be painted with my loves blood.”

Conflict had turmoiled like the mountain’s blizzard in Geralt. Thoughts battled each other like the wind and snow, the elements crashing together till Geralt could seldom find the direct in which the snow fell, and the wind blew. The heavy chain on Geralts shoulders rattled fiercely as another gale blew right through the Witcher, sending his cloak billowing. But dragons were reclusive intelligent creatures, it was the reason being Witcher didn’t hunt dragons; so why, Geralt wondered, would a dragon attack a quiet village unless angered by them. Too Geralts surprise, the tradesman had wondered the same.

“Folk know there be dragons in these mountains, or had been, reckon. It’s been so many winters since ones been seen we assumed they’d left.” Mori sighed, and dragged his weather hand down his lined face “in that aspect, it’d be our forefathers’ sin. This village was established on the backs of its people, and with no king or lords help. We are self-efficient people, our homes were built by the hands who lived in them, our clothing sewn by those donned in them; if we desire riches, there are no nobles to tell us off for having them. Milk, desirable bread, lace, dye. We make it ourselves and colour our world brightly to starve of the mood of winter. Our forefathers realized the pleasures they made were considered fine delicacies in the lower towns and would be bought for a hefty price. And ale, something we cannot make here, was a delicacy they discovered fanciful, perhaps too much.” 

“Hmm.” Geralt knew what a lust for liquor could do to people, he’d dealt with them before. 

“Our dye; Its wonderful brilliance dazzled the lord’s tastes. You see, there are a scattering of rare berries and flowers that grow here in the summer with pigments so strong it’ll stain all but ore; and what use would we have for that, as our ore is as colourful as the mystic rainbow. But you see, even a lord only needs so much dye.”

“But a mad man’s goblet never goes dry.” Geralt finished.

“Aye.” Mori agreed, “the devil drink had their throats parched. And without trade they lacked the coin to buy it.” mori sighed. “so, maddened by thirst they sieged the mountain side for a new pigment, a colour gleaming with greed; and may the devils have them, they found it. dragons, with their iridescent scales of azure; like the sky on a crystalline day. Ne’er had they seen a colour dance in the sunlight just so.”

Geralt could guess the rest. The dragon had been slayed by the townsfolk men, the scales crushed into powder and mixed with oils to create a blue dye seeming to move with a pearl like shine. Trade had resumed. 

Mori had confirmed Geralts conclusion with a grim nod, “aye, Witcher. But the next generation, my own, despised both the drink and the cruelty our fathers practiced and the tradition that lasted half a century ceased. We left offerings for the dragons, sheep and cattle, as much as we could confidently spare for three winters after until the offerings stopped disappearing. We’d reckoned the dragons were appeased, but years have passed since we folk have seen ‘em. If any are still about, they’re reclusive.”

“Hmm.” Geralt had gazed through the stained window. Across the lane a deserted house was filling with snow. There was a failing in Mori’s narration; a company of folks’ men could not slay a dragon so easily. “And what of the dye?”

The dye, Mori had told him, was taken to the slain dragon’s caves and painted across the openings, as to give back what was theirs. 

So why, Geralt wondered as he passed the gapping mouth of a cave, its entrance painted with a shimmering blue paint, would a dragon attack now. Geralt stood before the cold cave, listening to the moaning wind sweep through the cave undisturbed. The wind urged him onward, but a faint tittering in the cave caught Geralts attention.

The winds talons eased away as Geralt entered the cave, the still air caressing is numb face, and it was only in the slight warmth did the cold under Geralts skin finally bite. The reverberation of Geralts boots grew sharper in the hallow cove as the walls narrowed. 

“Fuck.” 

Amongst dried pine branches the skeleton of a juvenile dragon was bound with rope. 

Rage boiled in Geralts chest and before he was aware of his actions his sword was slashing through the ropes. Geralt leaned on his steel sword, breathing heavily. A desire to return to town, collect Jaskier and leave curled through him, whitening his knuckles around his sword. 

Geralt righted himself. Mori was right, these were the sins of the people’s fathers. 

Jaskier fed and watered Roach, then with nothing else to do, brushed her coat and freed snags from her hair. She seemed to sigh when Jaskier threw a thick wool blanket over her and moved her to a house with most of the roof intact. Jaskier brought her through the back of the house, where the wall had been torn out, and tied her up loosely, as Geralt did. She butted him with her head at the state of her makeshift stable, shifting uneasily. 

“Sorry Roach,” Jaskier stroked her neck, “I think you’re the first horse to ever be in this village, they haven’t a stable or shed, so this’ll have to do for now.” Roach nickered.

Jaskier sighed, “At least it’s a pretty green. Never seen a stable this colour, I’m sure.” Jaskier frowned, hand smoothing over the pearl like shimmer of the green paint. “Actually, I’m not sure I’ve seen a green this dazzling anywhere.”

Much like the night before, the streets were desolated. Jaskier, following his and Roach’s prints back to whence they came, studied the houses. This side of the town had been struck heavily, every few homes a shell of a house decayed. The green must have been exceeding rarity as many of the home on this side of town were either marron or yellow…

Jaskier stopped in his tracks and thoughts. Though it was true, most of the homes standing on this side of the village where red and yellow, many of the homes on the other side where green. Alas, many more homes stood strong on the west than the east. Jaskier continued on his way. 

And stopped again, turning in his streak to study a tumbledown house. the house had most succumbed to the snow but peeking through was the trimming of a green house, paint glimmering like the snow. 

“No…” Jaskier breath, his words a cloud of steam. Whirling around Jaskier landed judgments on another house, caved in by a profound weight, and, barely hanging on a rusty hinge, a glimmering green door swayed to and fro in the wind.

“Great Melitele’s tits, Geralt has to know.” As Jaskier ran back to Mariam’s home, where Geralt and he were staying, the wreckages all revealed one similarity: glistening green accents. 

Mariam had a small garrison of fluffy milk buns on the table, a number growing with each hour. The snow on Mori’s boots were beginning to puddle beneath his feet as he swiped another bun from the table. The last swirls of frigid wind in the room from when he’d opened the door were disappearing and his cheeks burned in the heavy warmth. Mori sighed, thoughts wandering to the Witcher and his haste to towards the dragon. 

The door slammed against the post and the wind swept through the room with it icy hooks, the wind whirling until just as quickly the door was shut and the air still.

“Jaskier, dear me, I thought you’d be with the Witcher.” Mariam scurried over to the wither’s bard, taking his coat from him. 

Jaskier paused in unwrapping his scarf, “he’s left?” alarm seized the bard.

Mori remained where he was, studying the Witcher’s odd companion. “he left not twenty minute ago to kill the dragon.” 

Jaskier noticed the tradesman’s presence for the first time, “dragon?” Jaskier leaned against the supportive pillar, hand coming up to rub his itchy eyes, “gods, if it’s a dragon he’s not going up the to kill it at all.” He mumbled.

Mariam glanced at mori meaningfully. Mori sighed and kicked out the chair across from him, “come sit,” his gruff request was everything but. Jaskier sat himself down.

“What do you mean he’s not going to kill the dragon.”

“Look, Geralt’s a Witcher of the Wolf school alright, he was taught to save dragon not kill them,” Jaskier explained impatiently, “he’ll try to trap it or something, or I don’t know… did he have a chain? Right, well than he’s probably leading it away. But that’s not what’s important-”

Mori waved his hand and leaned back in the chair, “ah, he may do as he please with the dragon,” he said aloof, “as long as it doesn’t come back. lord knows it’s merely extracted it’s revenge.” 

Jaskier slammed his fisted hands on the table, leaning forward, “listen dammit, this dragon has been targeting green houses particularly. Now I haven’t the faintest clue what that means, but by the gods it means something. If this dragon is somehow…” Jaskier waved his hands around, looking for the words “tied to these houses, it won’t leave. And if it won’t leave then Geralt’s going to have to kill it; and he won’t. That stubborn, honorable Witcher won’t kill it.”

Mariam’s rosacea stood stark on her pallid face, clutching her apron in tremoring hands, “curse the graves of our forefathers that they should have raised such silly children. How could we have not realised it mori?”

Crooked teeth peaked from Mori’s gaping mouth. “The blue dye.”

“What?” Jaskier snapped his fingers before the tradesman, “speak, I haven’t the time!”

Mori looked to Jaskier, confounded. “The Witcher didn’t say?” 

Jaskier sniffed, crossing his arms. “He was in quite the hurry this morning.”

Mori regarded Jaskier oddly but dismissed it with a shake of his shaggy head. “Our fathers hunted dragons for their scale, for crushed up and mixed with a base it created a glistening azure blue. Mostly, it was used for trade in the Valley towns, alas, it was our fathers pride discovery and they painted the pillars of many a homes with it.” mori held his hands up to ease Jaskier outrage, “easy! We tried to sand it off, but the paint was too strong, so we painted it over with a yellow- “

“But the houses the dragon is targeting are green- “ 

“Yes well,” Mariam admitted timidly, “we tried to paint over the colour best we could you see, but the blue was such a strong pigment the yellow really had no hope in covering it completely. As you’ve seen, the mixture of the color turned it green.” Mariam hurried to continue, but Jaskier was already pulling on his coat, his chair clattering to the floor, “we hadn’t thought such a thing was possible, it never even occurred- “

Jaskier turned to her harshly, “gather the village people and get rid of the paint; sand, scrape it, burn it off for all I care. Just get it done. This dragon’s not going to leave with its kin’s guts embellishing your bloody houses.”

The thin air tightened Geralts chest as he submerged above the worst of the storm, the peaks top scarcely visible through the mist. the pungent smell of the dragon was nearly overwhelming, blowing from the east in great gust. It was near.

The Witcher relived the chain from his shoulder instead wrapping it around his fist and allowing the rest to drag. As Geralt closed in on the dragon, he downed Blizzard, Petri’s Philter, and Dagon Sap. His stomach burned with a cold fire, then like a needle under his nails they scorched through his veins. 

Around a bend of boulders, a great puff of steam dissipated.

The dragon craned its neck, regarding Geralt with caution. _This dragon has met a Witcher before_ , Geralt thought, staring into her intelligent eyes. Geralt took a few cautious steps, lifting the chain. She puffed out a warning, and Geralt felt her deep hum as much as he heard it. 

He tutted his tongue much like he did to roach, murmuring lowly, “you know it wasn’t them, they’ve no blood on their hands. You must go.”

She bared large yellowed teeth, snapping them agitatedly and shifting back in the snow. 

“There is nothing you can do for your kin now, just as I cannot bring back my fallen brothers.” The dragon’s nostrils flared, sniffing the Witcher’s inhuman scent. Geralt was sure she understood him, understood he spoke of the sacking of Kear Morhen, “Kear Morhen will ne’er see another child-Witcher run the halls, but you,” Geralt smiled, “are in heat.”

Geralt muscle burned from tension. The chain was offered before the dragon, a glimmering blue nose sniffed and nudged the chain, inspecting it. “I’ll bring you to the other side of the mountains, your kind will surely be there. Then I will leave.” Geralt’s voice was steady, but the heavy head nudging his hands holding the chain could amputate him in a flash.

A barely audible sigh left him when the dragon lowered her head, submitting to the Witcher. Geralt slipped the chain around her neck and slowly guided her away from the cove she sat by. Around the wall of boulders, the wind blew against them. 

Jaskier’s scent hit them simultaneously. The dragon tossed her head back savagely and Geralt, whose hand was wrapped by the chain, was thrown into the air, slamming into the mound of rocks. 

The air in his lungs whooshed out of him in a puff of vapour and a trickle of warm blood ran into his eye. He rolled to his left as hooked claws gouged into the boulders, and scarcely missed a crushed femur by the second foot stomping down. The dragon roared, and with a toss of her neck had Geralt sailing through the air again. 

The impact was winding, the ringing in his ear and the claws hell-bent on tearing out his intestines made it maddingly difficult to free his hand. Geralt cursed tersely when the chain strained again, his wrist burning metal links restricted and tore into his flesh. Damn his foolish short-sighted planning. With a snarl, slobber reeking of epidermis spewing everywhere, the dragon drew back on her hind leg, pulling Geralt up with her, and readied to dive into Geralt with bared teeth. There was nothing for it, in a split-second decision Geralt tore his thumb from its socket and ripped his hand from the chains, dodging the snapping jaws with a pirouette. 

His sword begged to be drawn and his medallion quivered insistently, but Geralt’s be damned if he didn’t save this dragon. Geralt dashed to the dragon’s side trying to find a vantage point where he could mount its back and rein the chains. He rounded the corner full throttle and rammed over Jaskier. 

Geralt eyes widened in disbelief, terror gripping him for the first time in months. The clattering of the dragon’s claws snapped Geralt into a fury. 

“ _Gods damnit Jaskier!_ You fool!” Geralts snarl was nearly as feral as the dragons, his teeth bared. Jaskier spluttered a protest.

Geralt grasped Jaskier by the shoulders and threw him out of the way, and without chancing as second glance at the dazed bard Geralt drew his sword on the neared dragon. 

for one moment all dispelled. The dragon seemed as surprised by the sword as the Witcher, both glancing at the sword in near confusion. _Witcher’s don’t kill dragons._

“Leave!” Geralt thundered at the dragon, but to no use, and Geralt knew so. The moment Jaskier’s scent had wafted into the cove the dragon had been blinded by rage. Regret and terror burned through the Witcher, everything a Witcher was trained not to feel in battle. 

A gust of wind kicked the battled back into motion. The dragon lunged for Jaskier but Geralt had predicted this. Geralt swung his sword between the beast jaws, planting his feet in the ground to slow the dragons advance. The blade cut through the membrane at the corners of her mouth and slowly the nipping teeth drew closer to Geralts face. Geralt growled as the dragon push forward. His right hand braced against the blade, cutting through leather and flesh. 

“Fuck! Jaskier!” Geralt growled chancing a look over his shoulder as spittle flew in his face. The bard was as white as a sheet, mouth agape. Geralt grunted under the dragon’s force, his feet sliding in the snow. “Run, bard!” 

A dire mistake; the trice Jaskier scurried to his feet the dragons focus realigned. She struck Geralt aside with an adroit slash to his chest, sending the Witcher hurtling through the crusted snow. Geralt grasped the momentum of his slide, righting himself enough to cast an Aard at Jaskier before Geralt slammed into a tree. The Sign plucked Jaskier away from the dragon’s talons like a puppet on taut strings. The dragons hooked claw tore the red fabric of Jaskier cloak. 

The Yrden staggered the dragon, giving Geralt the precious second he needed to right himself. Warm blood spilled over the leather plates of his.

Geralt gnashed his teeth as the effort of casting Quen over Jaskier cause him to stumble sluggishly. Geralt tightened his left-handed grip on his sword, his right bleeding and useless without an operative thumb.

The dragon broke the Yrden; the shattering spell felt like teeth a ripping right through him. The dragon regarded Geralt with betrayal, teeth bared. She charged with a roar, her head snaking back and forth, all tittering teeth and hissing, and Geralt snarled with gleaming teeth in return.

She drew back on her hind legs to dive in, exposing her belly. Geralt took his victory. with a spring, he buried the sword in her heart, and like a tearing paper, sliced her open from her breastbone to her navel.

Geralt twisted away as the dragon tittered and collapse forward. Blood slashed around her body, but the wet gushing of her entrails was all Geralt had to endure, her stomach buried in snow. 

Nausea rattled through Geralt like vertigo; he hadn’t experienced a spell like this since his trials. The Witcher swayed, bracing himself on his sword heavily. Pain was beginning to prickle through the cold numbness; Geralt reined in his huffy breaths, controlling them. 

The hand barely swept his shoulder before Geralt had the man at the point of his sword. 

Jaskier. 

“Whoa whoooah, Geralt!” Jaskier held up his hands placatingly. Geralt grunted and let him go, chucking his sword to the side. Jaskier steady the swaying Witcher, “hey, hey come on. Geralt, stay with me, we gotta get you out of here.” Jaskier struggled to pull the Witcher along, but he couldn’t tumble a few steps; he’d kill them before they reached the village. Geralt leaned in to Jaskier, his sluggish head resting on his bards’ shoulder. “Geralt, gods, is this all blood?”

The Witcher wasn’t listening. Over Jaskier shoulder he gazed into the lifeless eyes of the dragon he was meant to save. 

Maybe some monsters were only redeemed by a sword.

&

Stitches, like black spiders in a haystack, welded the skin of Geralt's chest in three curved rows. 

Jaskier sat on the floor, a fur rug warming his bottom, and mended the torn leather of Geralts breast plates with strong, sure hands. The tacky blood had washed of easily enough.

Geralt watched Jaskier bent over his armour, shoving the thick needle through holes hammered in with a nail; it was a burdensome task to fix leather, and Geralt rarely bothered to do it himself. his beseeching gaze knifed on unnoticed.

The distinct feeling of time elapsed unnoticed wrapped around his mind like mists. The crackling fire lit the bronze slivers of stubble on Jaskier jaw and Geralt searched his mind for the last place Jaskier had settled long enough to properly care for himself.

It must have been in Lidköping, when a small but deft wound had Geralt bleeding out quicker than a stream into a lake. Jaskier had met him at the cusp of town, a grass worn under soft suede shoes, to help the Witcher from Roach with strong steady arms. At the seam of his sternomastoid muscle and clavicle cut blood spewed from beneath Geralts slippery black glove. Where Geralt had seen knights use the cloak of a crofter to spare their armor of gore, Jaskier spared his silk blue blouse no thought as he’d eased Geralt to the ground and pressed on the wound till the bleeding congealed. Geralt remember the slick way Jaskier’s hands, slippery with blood, and struggled to compress the wound. Oddly, it’d seemed to Geralt, more peculiar he could close his greasy lids as Jaskier picked through potions able to burn a human’s stomach right out of their anus, than it did when Geralt used his last wheezing breaths to beg a healer for aid. 

As steady as a fresh fowl Geralt had risen himself to his feet and without prompt Jaskier had made himself Geralts crutch, helping the Witcher hobble back to their room. it was then, Geralt reckoned, with Witcher blood still under his fingernails, that Jaskier sat on the edge of his bed and shaved blindly. Whether it was gratitude, affection, or a sense of duty, Geralt had gently taken Jaskier’s hand after the second nick had sequined Jaskier cheek with blood. Unwavering eyes studied Geralt as he’d dragged the blade firmly over the bard’s stubble, revealing downy skin.

Geralt had laid awake, sticky blood still smeared over his body, brewing over the shuddering breath passing Jaskier’s lips. 

Geralt basked in his shame; when he’d met the bard, Jaskier’s clothing had been smooth, his eyes bright and his skin pale. Now the bard constantly pressed out the endless wrinkles in his clothes, hours in the face of the sun had bronzed his skin and caressed hair width lines at his eyes. 

Pressure, expanding and limitless like the night sky, push from within Geralts chest, clawing at his sternum to burst free; but the pressure just swirled and dashed about in his chest until Geralt felt as though his ribs would cleave open. 

His stiches itched but he didn’t move to soothe them. 

Geralt didn’t know how, or when, or why, only the veracity Jaskier had woven himself into Geralt as surely as time did the human body. He’d stayed so far off the path as to betray his training and kill a dragon. Shame and confusion burned his naval.

Geralt clutched his hand into a fist, nails curling into his palm. He grunted surprised when his hand began to bleed. 

_Fuck_ , Geralt thought, his hand. 

Jaskier looked up. He shucked the armour off his lap and scurried to the bed side. With one hand he clutched the Witcher’s uninjured hand gently, while the other brushed over his shoulder and arm fretfully. 

Like a waterfall shooting from a cliff side, words poured from Jaskier’s mouth. “Geralt,” Jaskier susurrated, his voice strained. “meletelie, Geralt I’m so sorry. The dragon was attacking green houses and I thought- well I knew you wouldn’t kill the dragon- but I didn’t think it’d leave! The house where painted will its kin's scales- but it was leaving and then I- I- I’m so sorry I made you choose-”

“There was no choice.” 

“What?” 

“There was no choice, I’d never let anything happen to you, not if I could prevent it by any means.” a tear tickled into his hair line, but Jaskier couldn’t tell if the Witcher’s was crying or not. “and that’s a problem, Jaskier.”

“Geralt-” Jaskier’s voice sounded frail.

“Your interfering with my work; with my purpose in life. I slaughtered a dragon, whom was wrought with grief, to save you. If you hadn’t been there, she’d be with her kin right now.” Geralt stared at the ceiling, jaw set. “but, if not for you, another dragon would have come along and done the same thing.” Geralt looked at Jaskier and squeezed his hand back, “I’m supposed to protect men and women and children from monsters, keep the beasts as far from them as possible, and yet I have a bard follow me into the midst of battle repeatedly. You make my job both immensely more dangerous, and yet I can’t recall a time in which my blade has swung so truly.” Geralts brows furrowed deeply and his eyes swarmed like molten gold, pupils like black marbles. “my path was so straight before you, and now more than ever I find myself at crossroads, not knowing which trail to take.” 

Jaskier bowed his head, lips gracing the Witcher’s hand tenderly. He looked back to his dear friend, fingers grazing the gaunt dips of his cheek, then brushing through the moon-ish threads of hair. 

“I cannot leave you, my friend, I would not.” Jaskier choked, “though I ache sorely, knowing I’ve caused such strife in your Path.”

These days with Jaskier were honeyed dreams, but soon a bloody dawn would rise and upon his sharpen sword he’d fall. For now, Geralt was a bitterly drunk on Jaskier, or perhaps feverish as though by hemlock, and was fumbling to maintain his drowsy numbness.

Geralt smiled softly, in a way that smoothed his forehead and pillowed the supple skin beneath his eyes, “then take comfort knowing you ease my burden as well.” He replied, hopeless. 

&

When seven suns had risen, Geralt and Jaskier began their way down the mountain, the town smelling acrid from the drying paint. 

Geralt had refused pay, so instead Jaskier wore a brilliant red cloak with yellow and purple trims, and roach had a soft lilac saddle blanket draped across her back. Jaskier’s bag was stuffed with freshly baked buns and chewy jerky; and though Geralt didn’t know, the local jeweller had furnished them two clasps, of a mockingbird and a white wolf. 

They journeyed down the mountain slowly, resting often more for Geralts sake then Jaskier’s. Though the slashes on Geralts chest had sealed the night before they’d yet to remove the sutures, for without the stiches it’d unfurl like a letter cut open by a paperknife. 

The snow mounted their eyelashes and weighted their shoulders, then, as they entered the grey forest the snow turned to rained and plastered their hair to the foreheads. Jaskier was miserable. 

The scrape on his cheek was strikingly red against his chilled skin, Geralt himself was as pale as though he’d taken cat. Then finally, after the ocean had rained from the sky, the gloomy clouds had given there fill and became content with hovering. 

“Geralts, for the sake of my talented fingers, can we please find a place to pit a fire.” Jaskier whined, “I feel as those my precious hands will never pluck a chord again.”

Geralt snort, “a blessing, if there ever was one.”

“Why do you hate my songs so? they’ve only ever enlightened ignorant folk of the true nature of you.” Jaskier frown and jogged up to where Geralt lead roach down a small slope of rocks. “people scowled at the mere sight of you before! Now they know the true heroics of the white wolf! Geralt of Ravia, more honorable then any knight you could name-”

Geralt pinned Jaskier with wild eyes. “That, right there, is why I detest your songs,” Geralt retorted, “they’re ludicrous, like little fairy tales; and I’d rather they tell their children about cannibalistic Witchers then honorable and kind ones.”

“Hey! I make the best out of the parsimonious details you give me! If you’d tell me how a werewolf walks, I wouldn’t have to guess it were on its hind legs! If there’s any inaccuracies in my songs, there’re your fault!”

Geralt tugged on roach, urging her to quicken her stubborn pace. She neighed angrily and tossed her head, jerking Geralt with her. The wither cursed the disobedient mare. “that’s not what I talk of, Jaskier. I’m not some holy knight, nor do I want to be, and I certainly don’t need people getting ridiculous thoughts in their heads that I’m interested in anything other than contracts and coin.” Roach nipped at her taut reins in Geralts hands, Geralt patted her cheek in warning.

Jaskier watched the two aggravate each other. “Really? Like the coin you refused from those villagers? That coin?” Jaskier prompted smug when Geralt merely grunted, “anyhow, that’s really a matter of perspective isn’t it? I’d wager a fair bit of coin that you’ve got a sturdier moral code than half the knights on this continent.”

“I didn’t take that coin because I failed at my job” Geralt snarled, “Witchers don’t slaughter dragon. We save them. If I’d guided that dragon to where she needed to be, I would have taken my coin and left.” 

Jaskier quieted, onus tugging his innards. “She died at no fault of your own Geralt; she attacked me. Not that it matters; the villagers just wanted her gone, they could have cared less what method you used.”

“I do.” Jaskier beamed as though Geralt had proven his point inexplicitly, “shut it Jaskier. I’ve failed my path, Vesemir and my brothers.”

Jaskier perked up at the mention of Geralts family, letting go of convincing the Witcher of his goodness for now. “brothers? The other wolf Witchers, you mean. Are they all as self-deprecating as you?” 

Geralt clinched his jaw, whacking a twig out of his way with too much force. Clearly not where he wanted the topic to go. 

“Come on Geralt!” Jaskier shrugged his shoulder into Geralt, “You must tell me of them. Surely they’d be insulted if I were to meet them and not know of a single hair on their head.”

“Forget it. You’ll never meet them.”

“Now, now that not very nice. Why wouldn’t I meet them, they’re your family, and I’m your only friend.” Jaskier frowned, “does that mean you’ll never take me to Kear Morhen.”

Geralt actually laughed, not brother to answer. He hooked a matted black book into roach’s saddle and swung onto the horse, stroking her mane as though he hadn’t just been flicking her irritably. 

“Hey!” 

“Humans don’t go to Kear Morhen Jas,” Geralt searched through the trees for the bubbling rush of water he’d been following. The sound of the wind blew hollow near the stream and Geralt was fairly certain there’d be a place to lay their rolls. 

“Well that not true,” Jaskier frowned, dodging a puddle of soggy grass,” there’s reports of Witchers and their lovers going to Kear Morhen- ooff.” Jaskier walked into roach’s backside. 

“What the hell Geralt-” Geralt stared down at Jaskier with a strange and powerful expression, one that had Jaskier feeling as though he’d said something very, very wrong. “what?”

“How do you know of that.” Geralts voice was rough, as though his words were squeezed past a stone in his throat. Roach stayed obediently still, sensing her master’s mood.

Jaskier regarded Geralt oddly, an eyebrow arched, “Oxenfort’s library. I read the diary of Rowena and Kacper’s journeys.” Jaskier watched Geralts face twist in disgust, mouth snarling in an ugly sneer, “Rowena wrote of the other humans she’d meet at the Witchers keep, though her writings ended abruptly, and no one really knows what happened to either of them. Why, Geralt, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve just swallowed a potion.”

Geralt pressed his heel into roach. “those writings where private,” he griped, “for nobody but her own and Kacper’s.” Geralt cursed under his breath, knuckles white on Roach’s reins. 

“Look,” Jaskier stumbled up next to roach, “I did know her writings should have been kept private alright, I looked at it like a history book, or like a mystery, what have you. I didn’t mean any harm by it, alright?” Jaskier touched Geralts knee placatingly.

Geralt shoved the hand off, “there no fucking mystery about it. They both died miserably and like fool.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened, “you knew them-!”

“Leave it, Jaskier!” the bard shrunk back under the Witchers furious glower. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier whispered softly. Geralts shoulders remand ridged. 

The dreary whether had cast the world in cold hues, subdued browns and greys, and now mist hovered between the trees in specter-ish rows. Jaskier felt his spirit fall, the noiseless forest making his unwanted presence feel unbearably obvious. Jaskier pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. 

&

The air apprehended a chill by the river’s banks, but Geralt insisted they go the night without a fire. Jaskier could only wonder why but preferred not to.

No fire meant no fresh food, and Jaskier soggy clothing was damn near hardening into ice. He could go to bed dissatisfied from a meal of wet slimy bread as long as he woke up alive and without ice clinging to his nose hairs. 

So, the bard grabbed his bed roll and threw it out nearly overlapping the Witchers, buffing said Witcher in the face with the blankets when doing so. Geralt shot the bard an unimpressed glare. 

Jaskier harrumphed and began shimming out of his cloths, pulling on dry articles one at a time. 

“Lambert,” Geralts gravelly voice sounded bright in the hollow woodlands, “would regard you with great distaste and speculism, but I’m sure you’d be thick as thieves within a week, making both my and Vesemir’s lives hell.” 

Jaskier squinted through the dusk, crawling up to the Witcher, knees aching from the sharp rocks under there blankets, till his fingers brushed Geralts arm, “he sounds like my little sister,” Jaskier’s voice was warm and close.

Geralt chuckled, his rough hand brushing over Jaskier’s, gentle like an unspoken apology for he earlier harshness, “he’s my little brother.” 

For a moment, Jaskier thought that was all Geralt would say on the matter. He waited. Often time when Jaskier assumed Geralt had withdrawn into his thoughts the Witcher would continue on breaths later.

“Eskel, he’s…” Geralt twirled the ring on Jaskier’s finger, spinning it round and round as he gathered the right words. His hand was warm against the bards. “he’s special to me.” a shuddering breath whooshed across the bards face, “he was with me through our trials and held me up when I and six other boys were selected for more. When I went through the additional mutations, he slept with me in my dorm, because there were five empty beds after the first round of poisons.” Geralt huffed softly, and Jaskier could imagine the way his eyes sometimes became light and fond, “when I woke from my fever, my hair was white. I almost chopped it off, you know, cause the older boys ridiculed me for it. But Eskel liked it, said I looked mysterious. He’d run his hands through my hair when I couldn’t sleep.” 

Jaskier thought of a young Geralt and a faceless boy laying together, trying to find some peace in the fortress of their suffering. 

“He does sound special,” Jaskier murmured, “he sounds… kind.”

Jaskier huddled closer to Geralt, and the weight of the Witcher leaning back into him washed away any weariness Jaskier felt in the darkness. He smelled of the earth, damp moss and wet stones. 

Geralt ran his fingertips over the rough rocks, listening to there minuet shift. Sparks of smarting tingled the rough pads of his fingers.

“Eskel is gentle and fair. Vesemir seeks his company the most during the winter, as he far more likely to indulge our old teachers lecturing and reminiscing.” Geralt hummed lightly, lost in a world where he could have Jaskier so intertwined into his life, “Eskel would listen to your songs with absolute reverence, and Vesemir would probably give you the key to the library.”

Endless shelves of old tomes and scrolls filled Jaskier’s head with wonder, “wouldn’t that be a sight to behold… the great Kear Morhen archives!” Geralt chuckled.

“Vesemir would hate you too, though he’d loath himself for it… and he’d lectured me night and day for bringing you along the path. Berate me for straying from the past.” Geralt sighed, “he had greater expectation for me after the experiments.” 

Jaskier frowned, “he can sod off.” He muttered.

Geralt laughed happily, “yeah, you a lambert would get along.”

Jaskier turned to face Geralt, sweeping his chin with callouses fingertips. Jaskier realized Geralt could likely see him as well now as during the day. “I’d dearly like to meet them one day.”

Geralt sighed, breathing deeply as his fantasy shattered. “hmm.” 

(ø)

Jaskier danced around the Witcher gleefully, prancing away from grabby hands with delighted hoots.

“Jaskier! give it back!” Geralt eyes shone with humor. 

“Why? So, you can- so you can buy- “Jaskier burst into laughter again, gripping a small, slack pouch to his chest as he ran through the luminously green meadow. Grass whipped smartly at his thighs through his delicate silk trousers. “so, you can buy roach a single sugar cUBE- AH!” Geralts fingers brushed the back of the bard’s silky shirt, hot on his heels. Jaskier picked up his pace huffing with laughter and exertion. 

“It was a paying contract!” Geralt finally tackled the bard to the ground, twist them around to bear the brunt of impact as they tumbled into the long grass in a fumble of limbs, hands grabbing and pulling.

“A, a paying contract you say,” Jaskier wheezed, curling around the pouch to shield it from Geralts prying. Jaskier dipped his hand into the pouch just as it was ripped from his grasp. Jaskier flung his arms to the side in defeat, laid out on his back, Geralt triumphantly clutching his payment and pinning Jaskier to the ground. Jaskier puffed out a long breath, “woooh.”

Geralt opened the leather bag, shaking it over his palm. He turned accusing eyes to the bard when nothing fell out. 

“What?” the bard squeaked innocently. 

Geralt was back over him in a flourish of white hair, prying the bards first open and grabbing a single shiny coin. The bard splutter, spitting out the Witchers silky hair. Geralt sat back, ignoring the bards protest of his weight, and shucked his hair over his shoulder. He studied the coin with amusement, noticing how well preserved the currency was, as though it’d been treasured, like something precious. 

“You see this coin, Jas?” the Witcher focused on the bard, but the bard was already gazing at him with a content smile. Geralt’s smile widen, “look at the luster of this metal; it’s been polished and kept safe in that pouch since the day it landed in her palm. This coin if worth more than all the gold in town.”

Geralt turned the coin in his hand, the kings face glistening in the warm summer light. 

Jaskier lungs burned pleasantly, heart still thumping, and he felt his chest swell with joy at the sight of Geralts loose smile. His black shirt was untucked, and he’d shoved the sleeves up to his elbow, the buttons partly undone to reveal a swooping scar. His hair was falling from its tie, milky strands shining like platinum in the sun. Jaskier reached up, brushing the rebellious hair away from his Witchers face. 

Geralt white lashes hooded his hair-width slit pupils, but Jaskier meet his yellow gaze when they flickered from the coin to him. Jaskier huffed a private chuckled, “you wish for parents to tell horrific tale of Witchers to their children, yet you came across a messily scrawl notice on light pink linen, describing what any commonfolk would’ve guess was an over grown spider, and you took it as though you were facing a kikimora,” Jaskier sniggered, humor apparent on the Witchers face, “more so, when arriving to the lair of this fantastic beast, this little girls bedroom, you investigate the area as though it was of dire consequence. Never have I seen you work so somberly before.”

Geralt became terribly stoic, though his eyes were lined gleefully, “but this beast had been tittering around her room for a fortnight.”

“You used your silver sword to sever a house spider!” Jaskier exclaimed, succumbing to another fit of mirth; his stomach began cramping.

“She was watching!” Geralt defended, rolling off the bard and fluidly collapsing into the grass beside him. 

“I could have stepped on it just as effetely, but I’d have ruined my new boots.” Jaskier mused.

Geralt hit his shoulder impishly, “some showman you are.” 

Jaskier hummed. Their trip into town had proven more profitable them he could have longed. Jaskier sung airily, dopey with serenity while swaying green blades sheltered them and the inspiring azure sky hovered above them.

Jaskier turned on to his stomach, closer to Geralt then before. The world was blithe around in this small hideaway of theirs, privacy allotted Jaskier with this unconcerned Witcher. 

He traced his finger over Geralts smile lines, feather light, as the Witcher deserved, “what is it floating around in this lovely head of yours” Jaskier whispered.

“Nothing lovely, I assure you. Only monsters.” Geralts eyes fell close under the bard’s ministration, pale lashes fluttering as though he could see the beasts in his mind.

“Monsters of what kind.” Jaskier probed.

“The kind a sword can’t easily silence.” The Witcher breathed, “tell me, bard, how do you sever something that runs through your blood, multiples and replenishes with every slow beat of this cordate shape muscle in my chest.” 

“You possess none of this evil you speak of. You are so kind, Witcher,” Jaskier said with conviction, “you possess so much strength, truly you could break me with little labour.” Geralts brows furrowed. Jaskier eased away his distress with tender fingers, his voice mellifluous. “And yet, not once have you laid a heavy hand on me, not once has your grip bruised my skin, nor your touch frightened me.” He smoothed a finger over the crease between Geralts brow, admiring the pale skin. “Your strength makes you so gentle, my Witcher.”

“Not a song,” but the words were lazy, drowsy.

“No,” Jaskier conceded, “you’re too good for any song I could write.”

Mischief curled the Witchers lips, “that sounds like endless extortion material.”

Jaskier tackled the Geralt, whirling them through the grass. “you rotten Witcher, taking advantage of my kind words!” he knuckled Geralt beneath his ribs, rubbing his fist into the sensitive nerves there. Geralt flailed and squawked.

(ø)

Jaskier was no dewdropper, but there was only so much a man, a normal man that is, could take. 

“Geralt! Stop walking away from me!” Jaskier bellyached, running up to the Witcher, “listen, I get you can’t go into town by no fault of your own, but I _can, so let me!_ ” 

Geralt ignored Jaskier, sniffing out a stream for them to wash. Pale sunlight strained through the overcast haze, and the mouldy scent of damp decaying leaves was nearly overwhelming.

“Geralt!” Jaskier grabbed his shoulder and whirled the Witcher around, “I need more than a handful of jerky and bread in a day! I feel nearly sick!” Jaskier crossed his arms, nearly stomping, “and my lute strings are rusting from this awfully persistent mist. How is a bard supposed to compose with rusty string Geralt? Hmmm?” 

Geralt regarded Jaskier with drawn brows, lips turned down, “the towns people will regard you with the same scorn as they do me. No, we’ll wait till the next town.”

It was true. Many of the time Jaskier would act as a mediator between Geralt and the towns people, but other times they’d regard Jaskier’s affiliation with the Witcher as they did a necromancers contract with the devil.

Jaskier’s empty stomach burned and sloshed. 

They’d passed three towns now that’d refused to let Geralt through the gates, one guard so disgusted as to spit in the Witchers face. Jaskier had nearly lodged his lute at the guard’s head, rage and famishment ravaging his sensibilities. Jaskier couldn’t say whether Witchers had slower metabolisms or if Geralt was just accustom to going without, but Jaskier’s mood had been foul after the first week of meager meals, and it’d been nearly a month wandering without the comfort of a town. Jaskier could feel the soft plush of spring melting off his tummy and back, and the knowledge his body had turned to itself for fuel vexed him. In the inauguration of autumn game had been scarce, most of the woodland creates they roast for stew stowed away far from the path. Jaskier was starting to gaze at rats scurrying city walls with desire.

A small bubbling stream came into view. Jaskier plopped himself onto a log, in no temper to be both hunger and cold. 

As Geralt drew his shirt overhead, stark shadows of ribs moved under his skin. 

Jaskier felt sick. 

A month before, in the last summer warmth, Geralt had spread with Jaskier in the flaxseed fields of Gdańsk, shirt shucked to appreciate the breeze on sweaty skin. Jaskier recalled the way lithe muscle trembled under his fingertips, a soft layer of fat pleasant to feel, whispering of their wealth. It’d been such a pleasing sight to see the Witcher with a healthy layer of storage on his body. 

The hollows between his ribs, the lack of subtle muscle flanking his sides, harrowed Jaskier, stole his next breath form his nose.

Geralt lifted his shirt to cover himself, bewilderment clear in the way he watched Jaskier study him. “What is it, bard?”

Jaskier’s throat was dry, each swallow thick and sticky like sap between fingers. He licked his lips, “You haven’t been eating.” It was a revelation, not a question. 

Geralt shifted, scuffing the arid dusk. The ridges of his spine protruded like the needles on a siren as he untied his shoelaces. 

“we’re rationing our preserves until Warcław; assuming they’ll be warmer welcoming.” Geralt didn’t denounce Jaskier’s assumption. 

“And I’ve been whining like an insolent child stuck between meals.” Jaskier breath shudder, running his hands through dishevelled hair. Shamed hide his face in his hands. The splash of Geralt interrupting the stream drew him from his palms. Jaskier sighed, “why didn’t you confine in me.”

Geralt ducked his head beneath the rippling water, savoring the music of rushing water, muting the bards niggling. The forest burst back into sound and Geralt shook sodden hair from his face. “wouldn’t change anything.” Geralt focused on Jaskier at the bards scoff, “Jas… your guilt is not appreciated, or necessary. I’ve eaten when I must, but a Witcher’s metabolism is far too fast for me to indulge, and this will not be the last time I go without.” Geralt scrubbed away the road’s sooty residue, “I am more concerned with having enough to sustain you till the following town.”

“Geralt, gods above, we are companions! I do not travel with you to be your burden!” Jaskier rose despite his fatigue, “listen, logically you need more to sustain yourself if the mutagens make your metabolism faster; if that is not enough to convince you than consider; I do depend on you to protect me.” 

Geralts resounding grunt with deductively noncommittal. 

Jaskier shucked his pants, joining Geralt in his briefs and tunic. The rocks beneath his feet where slimy from hard won algae, like the head of a clammy mushroom. He ran a cool hand down the ridged lines of Geralts ribs, catching cold droplets. Geralts alabaster skin dimpled like goose flesh.

“I know you are not human,” Jaskier sighed, fiddling with the medallion rest on Geralts chest, “but you still feel hunger like one, and the cold still nips you when you cover me with your blanket, and loneliness still haunts you alone in the corners of taverns whilst I sing my songs. You needn’t hide these aliments from me, friend; I won’t make a song of them, I promise.”

Geralt rested his forehead against Jaskier’s, breathing in the scent of mint and honeysuckles masked beneath earth and sweat. Jaskier’s wanting, his hunger and discomfort, struck Geralt like a manticores spear. If he was to selfish to rid Jaskier of himself, then Geralt would ensure Jaskier was as well off as he could be. 

“Yes, but let me do this for you, Jaskier.” 

&

Wrocław was buzzing like flies on a carcass. A market was due come the new week, and despite the late hour, the streets were full of hammering together stall, relocating good, bargaining, shrieking children, and the attempt to polish the stain of a town with banishers and lights. 

Jaskier was supposed to stay at the Cantankerous Cooch tavern, a title of which both Jaskier and Geralt could not shed light on, even after staring at its name in utter astonishment for an absurd lapse of time. Upon discussing business with the inn keeper, Jaskier theorized the owner simply lacked the aptitude to understand the words ‘cantankerous’ or ‘cooch’. 

Geralt left Jaskier at the tavern to settle himself while he restocked roaches saddle bags. Geralt wandered through the lanes, picking through the stales with the efficiency of someone who felt they had little time. The Witcher listened to passing children and farmers, as many contacts came by word of mouth. 

The Witcher paused at a brightly coloured stale, flicking a pennant banner out of his way. Cheaply made instruments hung from the stales wall, wood rough and keys crooked, but the strings displayed on the table shone as brilliantly as his silver sword. The humble stales owner wobbled up to Geralt. 

“Those are coated ye see, as to protects through vagabonds’ strings from rusting so quickly. I once knew a man who died of lockjaw from his rusty guitar strings-” the man’s thick mustache continued to bounce as he rambled on, but the Witcher ignored him as he inspected the strings. 

“why should I think you make string any better than instruments?” the Witcher questioned. 

The man bristled, “hey now, you do gotta buy my strings if they don’t fancy ye, ya don’t seem like the musical folk anyhow.” The merchant twirled the twiney hairs on his face and huffed, “I’ve been a metal maker from years ye see, the wood workin’ business is new.”

“hmm.”

“the lute string yer pinning at are made of guts like usual, but the deeper sounds, the ones made of winding metal, those I coat with carbon to keep the weather at bay.”

Geralt scrutinised the merchant, lip twisted menacingly, “so they’ll protect him from tetanus if he plays his fingers raw again?”

The merchant nodded frantically, “yes sir!”

“I’ll take the set.”

A little longer eavesdropping on the farmers yakking, Geralt discover the tavern had been renamed after the demise of an old hag, promptly hacked to ribbons on the outskirts of the town, much to the town’s glee. Her apothecarist remedies left many women without serviceable ovaries, and after the newly wedded lady of Otis Berlion bled shriveled from a combusted midsection, the merchant had dragged the crooked bag to the mouth of the forest howling and shrieking and had sliced her pending unrecognisable. 

Nose red and meldropy from autumns early nip, Jaskier had been agreeable to a night of composition by the crackling hearth. He would play a few songs for the small swamp of weary eyes steadily glazing over with alcohol, get a little bleary eyed himself, then sit the night out warm and fuzzy, preferably with his svelte Witcher next to him. Alas, the bard had come to realise days spent idling with a Witcher were days to be pinned after. 

The Witcher returned and they’d saddled down long enough for Geralt to down a few tankers of ale and lose the sharp suspicion in his eyes prevailed in towns like this. Jaskier was recounting his enthusiastic, albeit disastrous, journey through the furious gales of the northern oceans, a journey that revealed his susceptibility to seasickness. Despite the unsavory company and ill health, Jaskier claimed he wrote about the ocean’s liveliness, between hurling and fainting, with mad reverence. Geralt listened indulgently, cheek resting against a curled hand as he watched the bard gesticulate fantastically and asked to hear the poem one day.

Jaskier just about sprung from his chair to grab his notebook when a man slides on his bench. Jaskier plopped down, resigned. 

“What is it.” he snapped, mood turning lime. Geralt glance at him surprised, then he turned in to unyielding stone as he faced the stranger. Were the Witcher’s black donning had appear to make his pale skin shine before, it suddenly seemed like a warp of deep shadows as his emotions were curtly locked away.

“Answer the bard.” His voice was a low growl.

The man scratched at his scaly hand, and his bald head dripped with sweat. He reeked of fear. 

His lips trembled as though he’d cry, but then he was hurling his words at them like vomit, “the eastern road, Vagon that leads to Gænar, it’s shadowed by a forest and the road is just about swallowed by the swamp. Yer smart to use caution going through thee, smarter not to go at all. But it cuts wee daylight of yer traveling, so it’s used often enough anyhow, and most of the time if ye keep yer pouches close, company closer, and your forks in hand ye’ll make it through. Not anymore ya see. There’s some wretched, writhing and, and toiling creature on that path.” The man torn the sleeve of his shirt. Twisting up his arm, a deep, bubbled and warped trench of flesh burn to the bone, gleamed deep pink. “I ain’t got no feeling in me arm no more,” Jaskier cringed at his horrendous grammar but held his tongue when Geralt nudged him under the table. “my brother, he was hit in the face,” the man buried his face in his hands, “flesh, like ground meat, his mouth the only thing on his face I could recognise, a hole for terrorised screams to leave.” He sobbed into his hand, eyes glistening straight at the Witcher. “I ran from that, that _thing_ as fast as I could. And by the gods, I thank the bloody dirt itself the creature couldn’t move.” 

That snared the Witcher’s attention, “how do you mean.”

The man pauses, face soured as though he’d confused himself. Good gods, Jaskier lamented; he wanted to shake the man to get his marbles rolling. The dream of a warm fire was beginning to feel cold. 

“It, it was as though it where rooted. It tore through the ground and attack but didn’t seem to inch a lick from there once it appeared.”

Geralt grabbed the man’s arm and wrenched it forward, nearly pulling the man from his seat. Jaskier was as startled as the man. The Witcher scrutinized the gnarled flesh raptly.

“An archespore…” Geralt released the man’s arm, “I haven’t run into one of these in decades…”

“What? An... what? Geralt your mumbling, speak up, its dreadfully noisy in here.” 

“Now you know what it’s like having you for company.” The Witcher stood, a wicked grin curling his lips while Jaskier gapped. He turned to the man seriously, watching with contempt as the stranger rubbed his arm where Geralt had gripped him. “steady your trembling legs, man, and lead me to this creature.”

The ground squelched beneath the company’s feet, mist hovered closely to the ground, wrapping around the men as they made their way through the muddy field encircling the town. 

“I’m too drunk for this Geralt! _You’re_ too drunk for this!” Jaskier harrumphed behind them. A sloppy splash sounded and Geralt laughed at Jaskier’s moan. Jaskier shook the sludge from his boot. “Disgusting” he spat.

“I’m not drunk, Jas,” Geralt threw a pot-valor grin over his shoulder. Jaskier felt his insides melt. “It’ll take more than piss poor ale to survive in my blood. Hurry up, before our lead shits himself and faints.”

“Good, well that’s great, Geralt. As long as you’re not drunk, it’s alright for Jaskier to be turned in to fleshy gruel by some acid spitting plant. No worries.” Jaskier couldn’t even imagine hot embers right now, never mind a crackling fire. 

“I told you to stay back, sing your songs and make some coin.” Geralts slowed his pace to walk next to the moping bard, “I was too drunk to argue with you to listen.”

Jaskier shoved Geralt incredulously, growing more unbelieving when the Witcher actually stumbled, “you said you weren’t drunk!” 

“I’m not, I’m not,” Jaskier snorted derisively, “Jaskier,” Jaskier turned to the accused Witcher, nose upturned, “I’d never let anything happen to you.” All the mirth stolen from Geralts tone, reflective, dilated pupils flashing in the moon light as they search the bards face for any fear.

Jaskier clasped Geralts shoulders, onceing over the man and shaking his head in dismay, “we should do this tomorrow Geralt; you’re not even dressed properly.” Geralt lacked his usual armour, dressed in his casual loose shirt and leather pants, swords hazardly slug across his back. 

Geralt covered the bard’s hands, before turning away and continuing on. “Leather wouldn’t protect me from archespore venom anyways Jas, just means I’ll be faster.”

Jaskier sighed, “be careful,” he begged as the soggy road beneath their feet began to patter and slash with each step, the trees flanked either side of them like slumped toured bodies.

“This is as far as I’ll go.” The man was trembling all over, and before Geralt could relent and dismiss the man, he bolted like a freighted foal. 

Jaskier and Geralt watched the man trip in the field, scramble to his feet and continue running back to the town. “right, well, let find this thing.”

“Wait,”

Jaskier turned back to the Witcher, watching Geralt down Cat and Golden Oriole. He frowned, “you’ve dealt with one of these before, right?”

Geralt shrugged walking past the bard with lowered eye, dark veins creeping across his face, “a couple decades ago. Climb a tree and stay there, it’s close.” He ignored Jaskier’s squawk of protest. 

“How do you know?”

“I can smell it.”

Jaskier hastened to a mountable tree, careful to find a sturdy branch to scout the area. Geralt glanced up at Jaskier with pit less eye, measuring the height from the ground, and nodded his approval. 

Geralt waded down the road, water ankle high, his steps echoing splashes. The town’s ignorant hummed glided over the shallow swamp.

Geralt’s next step folded into a rolled, glowing venom nicking his shirt. 

“Fuck!”

Jaskier couldn’t be sure who’d said it. A massive orange plant twisted, and shrieked, sticky mucus strung between teeth lined leaves. 

Geralts sword hissed from its hilt, polished blade gleaming valiantly. 

“Come on, you ugly fucker.” Geralt snarled, his grin gleaming, “let’s have at it,” 

The creature wailed, stretching out so far Jaskier was sure it would spring up from the ground and attack the Witcher, but instead it dove down, shoving its head into the head. Geralt sprung forward, sword swinging, and struck the thick sprout. He hacked at its neck with heavy blow, sword drawn over his head and brought down repeatedly. 

The creature ripped it’s head out from the ground, water and dirt spraying, and from behind the Witcher the water rippled, and a luminescent orange pod was birthed from the ground. Jaskier went cold with horror, the pod expanding until it appeared it’d-

BOOM!

Venom and chunks of flesh splattered the Witcher. “ughrk!”

“Geralt!”

The trees sizzled where the venom had caught them, and the water shimmered with a film at the site of the combusted pod. 

Jaskier hug the tree tighter, straining to get a better look at the Witcher. His heart rabbited fiercely in his chest, raging against its cage. Jaskier felt stone cold sober.

Geralt had retreated, wiping his face, but besides mild disgust, the Witcher was unfazed. 

“You cantankerous cooch,” before the second one even appeared, Geralt had jumped into a twirl, sensing the vibrations in the water. Quicker than Jaskier eyes could catch, Geralt casted Igni with his left hand, and upon clutch the hilt of his sword the fire spread over the blade, setting metal ablaze. The burning sword swooped around with the momentum of the Witchers spin, slicing through the creature effortlessly.

“That’s it!” the Witcher shouted gleefully, “it’s the old hag! Jaskier, it’s the old apothecary!” 

Geralt looked up to Jaskier, the elation of a person completely in the element painting his face. 

Another archespore tore through the ground seizing its opportunity to strike. Its needle like teeth tore through the line of Geralts shirt as he rolled away. The wither panted for a moment, clutching his side and dripping. 

A flurry of movement evaded Jaskier’s comprehension, only the shrieking of the plant and the disarray of green flesh spew telling the bard the third venom had been annihilated. 

The Witcher feinted away from another pod, running wrathfully toward the original archespore, his sword a scorching streak in the night. He decapitated it with rap. 

Geralt stood in the filmy water, panting lightly. He grinned up at Jaskier, eyes still black as pitch, “how’s that for a night of fun!” he called up.

Jaskier laughed hysterically, exhilarated, his hands trembling from adrenaline. When the fire on Geralts sword disappear with a hiss, he clambered down the tree excitedly.

“Good grief, Geralt! I think we need to work on managing your rage!” Jaskier jested. 

A tick too late, Jaskier noticed the small pod beneath the water’s surface. Water splashed as though raped by a pebble, a pathetic amount of venom squirting from its lips.

Jaskier itemized arms enveloping him as his back crashed against the rough bark of the tree he’d hailed from. Then a searing pain branded his shine, like an iron fire poker. Geralt ripped off his gloves, frantically tearing away Jaskier’s cloths as venom burned through fabric. His clothes were rags when Geralt lastly got a gripped on his panic, the places where venom had splattered his clothing nothing more than frothy threads. 

“Jas, fuck!” Geralt cradled Jaskier’s face with quaking hands, “are you hurt?”

“Geralt, Geralt, I’m okay, it just got my leg- but you got it off! I’m okay.” Jaskier hurried on when the Witcher became frantic again, death warmed over with black eyes impossibly catholic. 

“Fuck Jaskier, fuck!” the Witcher stalked away feverishly. He snarled. He swung his sword, tearing through the archespores fibrous corpse. “Fuck,” The Witcher uttered weakly, trembling, hands griping his hair. 

Jaskier hesitantly moved towards the Witcher.

“Stay back!” Geralt squalled. He paced like a rabid dog, kick away the dismembered archespore. “Fuck, Jas.” His accent was strangled, and he hid his face from the bard as he approached.

“Geralt, we need to wash you off before the Golden Oriole wanes.” Jaskier brushed the Witchers hand, “come, please.”

Jaskier dumped a bucket of warm water over the spluttering Witcher. Geralt scrubbed away the venom. Though his skin was largely unharmed, his shirt was littered with holes; a right sight they’d made creeping back into the tavern.

Jaskier diverted his eyes from the naked Witcher, but he admired his lithe body in his mind, comparing it to the swimmers at Oxenfort. 

Geralt’s mood was sharp as a thistle since the pod had spattered Jaskier, and though Jaskier credited it to guilt and fear, he couldn’t restrain himself from retaliating. 

Geralt testily grabbed the bucket from Jaskier’s hands, refilling it himself. “One day I’m going to stumble trying to make sure you don’t die and I’m going to fall upon my sword in Proditionem Ductus Paenitudine!” Geralt’s fuming extinguished promptly, bucket overflowing. 

Jaskier fist was mid shake, ready to start shouting back, but the Witcher’s libretti pronounced utter nonsense. Jaskier let his arm fall limp, nose wrinkled from confusion. “Bless you?” he questioned, bewildered. 

Geralt shifted, eyes sketchy. He looked to the floor and cursed, idly untangling his hair. “uh, never mind.” 

Silence prevailed as anger gave away to regret and perplexity, respectively. Only half the candles in the dingy bathroom where lit; Jaskier, though cross, was still cautious of Geralts potion enhanced eyes

“Was that Latin? Prodi- Proditionem… what?” Jaskier interrogated, hands on hips, “what did you say?”

Geralt quenched the flowing water, quickly scrubbing away the prevailing filth, “nothing, don’t think of it.”

Jaskier threw the towel at Geralts head, “of course! That’s reassuring, I just won’t think about it and all’ll be well. Tell me, is that what you do? Flout your problems and hope they vanish?”

“Yes, and it’s worked just fine till you came along.” Geralt dried his hair roughly, white mop disarrayed and pulled on his last set of unmarred clothing. 

Jaskier scoffed “you’re still trying that hoary line?” Jaskier grabbed the Witcher’s swords, stomping up squealing stair after the source of his strife. “We both know that’s absolute horse shite, Geralt!” 

Jaskier slammed the door shut behind them, pushing the swords off his back with all the disrespect of an insolent child. “Listen here, Witcher,” Jaskier derided, “one day you’re going to spurn me for the last time, and that’ll be the day I’m struck down with the view of your agelast back in my dying eyes!”

Geralt flinched as though Jaskier had struck him, a grievous wheeze ripped from his lips.

“Geralt…” Jaskier gnawed on his lip but didn’t move towards the Witcher. He cursed his tempered tongue and hot head. “Geralt, you must know that’s not true; you’ve never let harm come to me-”

A humourless sound interrupted Jaskier, and he felt his stomach coil uneasily. 

“I go on swearing to protect you, I’ll never let harm come upon you, and yet, so many times mortalities scythe has skimmed your neck.” The baleful veins around Geralts eyes receded back into his skin. “When will I learn? Now? While you can still loath and curse my name, or before it’s too late?”

“Geralt please, they were harsh, mindless words-” Jaskier begged.

Geralt roped in the distance, invading the bard’s space, and Jaskier braced himself from scuffling back. With hanker he gazed at Jaskier’s face, but he wouldn’t catch his eyes. “Will you leave?” he plead, his index finger brushing the bone under Jaskier’s eye. 

“Never.” The bards promise spilled through the Witcher like glacier water. 

Geralts touch left his face like a dandelion fuzz whisking away. Angst locked Jaskier eyes shut. 

Geralt trod past the bard, his silver sword ringing like crystal as Geralt withdrew it. Jaskier slapped a hand to his mouth as the door banged shut. 

The town blurred together, colors and hustling people melting indistinguishably like wax. His sword felt heavy in his hand, weighting him down. 

The lights still slashed across Geralts eyes phantom like as he cusped the towns edge. 

His breath wheezed in his lungs and Geralt clenched bare hands around his throat, fingers digging into the pulse between his tendons. Raucous, his heart blethered, and the repulsive smell of his own fear aided in strangling him. 

He’d indulged selfishness far too long. Like a child, he’d played hide and seek in the corners of his mind, running from the truth that his acceptance of the bard was his failure. No; more than that he’d embraced the bard’s presence, paid his way when he couldn’t, fed him, jested with him. Like a siren Geralt had drawn Jaskier father onto the path, the waters, loving him more so each day, all the while watching the waters gag him. He cosseted Jaskier from any monster they came across but refused to look in the calm waters and face his lying eyes, to murder the cancerous emotions beneath his indifferent stare. 

He needed to kill the self squirming under his scored skin; violent and torturous and what he deserved for sacrificing Jaskier welfare. 

The crass wanting, desire to never let the bard go tore against the need to shield him, and Geralt felt the festering wounds in his mind weep toxins. Hiraeth beckoned Geralt to Jaskier relentlessly. 

Geralt ran, all agility torn from his muscle. His feet slipped beneath him with every wet gush on mud until he lost the strength to hold himself and tumbled into the mire.

His sword slide from his hand, gleaming white silver marvellous in moon light. 

He was utterly alone. Desolated with his shame and a mind he’d sooner crack open and roast then engage. Emotions like boiling water slipped through his hands, formless and endless; Geralt cupped his hands fruitlessly trying to express himself to the bard.

The smell of Jaskier’s blood seared his nose as though the sewage Geralt squirmed through had been replaced by the bard cold rusting life, a whole field of sticky sour liquid marking Geralt with murder.

He scrambled through the mud on his and knees, the words tearing up his throat like acid, “Ante messem, cum stragulum mortis lapsus a frigore humeris, unum ferri talis panno via spiritus. Ego crevit in spinas et illa germinavit surrexit,” Geralt spat the mud form his mouth, gritty dirt between his teeth, and grasped the sword, dragging it towards himself.

“uuurhk!” he pushed himself onto his knees, arms trembling under the weight of his sword. It was biting and heavy in his clammy palms, but all Geralt felt was the passive weight of his bard’s corpse cooling in his arms. “pectore sic fecit mihi calor ferrum fluunt. Quæ præceptum est sanguis meuscum mihi satis erit deficient,” his chest heaved amid each gasp. 

The bard would never leave, and there stood too numerous a morning where Geralt had packed roach’s saddle to slither away soundless, gazing at the bard for what he believed was the last time, and then ceded to awaken the bard. 

Geralt wheezed deep breaths struggling to slip into his training; he was slaughtering a beast, protecting a human. “in anima vel carne mea furtum manducare, ego exacueret diligenter et tunc meus valde ferro erit disembowel me.” 

His sword felt iniquitous in his hand and turned towards himself. He steadied the quaking tip with his one hand on the blade, the silver nicking his palm forebodingly.

“Ego expulit tres;” Geralt stared into the deep woodlands, a brief thought to toss his sword and flee into the darkness gripped him. 

A spell of dizziness wash through him and calm numbness followed, his head afloat on his shoulders. “honorem.” Geralt whispered.

The tip of the blade sunk into his skin. 

Heaving bile and ale, Geralt doubled over, coughing into the mud, sword slack against is abdomen. The wound gushed blood with each searing heave. 

He pressed a timorous hand to his stomach, blood trickling through his fingers warmly from the surface wound. Geralt beat the ground with his fist, mud slopping, cry guttural and bowed against the unyielding earth in defeat. 

“Where have you been!” Jaskier shouted, fear throttling him, “gods Geralt what happen!” the Witcher was trembling violently, horror filled eyes glazed over. His clothing was smeared with muck, streaking his face and hair as through he’d been swimming with drowners. 

Geralt stumbled towards the bard, enveloping him in embrace, falling against him. Jaskier’s arms girdled him, holding the Witcher close. 

“I’m sorry, Jas.” Geralt rasped. Quaking knees buckled beneath the trauma; his chin was a heavy weight on Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Dear Melitele’s, Geralt, what happen,” Jaskier hastened away a tear, keeping Geralt in his arms. “I don’t understand!”

“I’m sorry,”

Morning come, Jaskier was alone.

**Author's Note:**

> /+/Before the harvest, when the blanket of death was slipped from my cold shoulders, the one carried such cloth way was of her spirit. I grew thorns and she blossomed roses, in my chest so did my heart iron flow and she commanded my blood alone. When my adequateness shall fail in soul or flesh, my steal I’ll eat. I sharpen carefully and then my very steel shall disembowel me. I drove three; Love, honor, penance. /+/


End file.
